The Courier
by DOKChairman
Summary: After a fight with Sydney, Vaughn decides to take a courier mission to London. Little does he know that the package he is protecting his wanted by several criminal organizations...and Sark.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Courier

Author: DOKChairman

Time/Spoilers: Don't know; it's a future fic. Assume everything up to "Truth Takes Time" is fair game.

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, at least not at this moment. There was this brief period of time back in '01 where JJ briefly lost the rights to the show to me in a poker game, but he liquored me up on alcohol and somehow managed to convince me that a pair of threes was good enough to beat a full house. That bastard. Just think of all the things I could have accomplished by now if I still ran this show... Damn you JJ!

Warning: This ain't your typical fic. It's bloody, violent, action-packed, full of language, possibly inappropriate humor (actually, this one is a certainty), sex (at least in my mind there is), and maybe, just maybe, some S/V action thrown in. If this don't float yer boat, or send your trailer rockin, don't read on. If, however, you don't mind an adrenaline fueled romp (hehe, I said romp) then please continue at your leisure. Oh, and did I mention that there would be Action Vaughn and Devious Sark? No? Ok, good then. 

  


A/N: First, for anyone waiting for new Angel Dark, you're gonna just have to wait longer. I'm very disappointed in the lack of response that I got. So many people told me to continue the story, and yet when I finally put out a new chapter, I got only like 5 reviews! Suffice it to say, I really don't feel like writing it right now. So, I'm doing this instead. Hopefully, this will get a better response than AD, but I doubt it.

  
  


Chapter 1: Handling Emotions

  
  


CIA Special Agent Michael Vaughn was pissed. No, that's not quite right. Pissed didn't even begin to describe the level of anger that was coursing through his body like molten lava. He was absolutely livid. That was the word he was looking for. He was livid beyond any measurable level. It was quite possible this was the angriest he had ever been. 

Why was he so angry? Under any other circumstances, that might have been a perfectly logical question to ask. However, these weren't your normal circumstances.

No, these were Sydney-circumstances and those circumstances were never normal. 

Vaughn stalked up to the man that he had been looking for the last half hour. He had checked his office and had found him not there; which had served to only increase his anger. He then checked the myriad conference rooms hoping to catch him ending a briefing, but he had not been there either. And finally, he had checked the JTF's operations room to little success. Vaughn knew that he was coming dangerously close to completely exploding.

It wasn't until he happened to be storming past one of the break rooms on his way to the JTF's elevator bank that he had found the object of his harried search. Of all the places to find the head of the joint CIA-FBI task force, he had to find him in the break room eating a jelly donut.

For some reason, just seeing Assistant Director Kendall sticking a jelly donut into his gaping maw served to inflame his anger even more. A god damn jelly donut! Didn't he know what was in those things?

Vaughn wasted no time in getting to the point of his arrival. He spat out angrily, "I want a mission!"

Kendall, who was busy wiping a blob of jelly off his mouth, fixed Vaughn with one of his patented glares. "Excuse me, _Agent_ Vaughn, but as you can see I'm a little preoccupied here."

Kendall's emphasis on his level of rank did not go unnoticed by Vaughn. But Vaughn didn't care. Vaughn pulled out the plastic, Government Issue chair and sat down across from Kendall. He rested his elbows on the Formica tabletop and leaned his head forward. Slowly he repeated his statement, "I...want...a...mission." Vaughn's voice was angry and full of emotion. 

Kendall sighed. Why was it that no one respected his authority? It was like they all thought they could just go off all willy nilly on their own.

"May I ask, Agent Vaughn, what brought on this sudden urge to gain field experience?" Kendall asked in a patronizing tone.

Vaughn snapped, "It's personal. I just want a mission to get away from L.A. for a few days."

Kendall frowned, his forehead temporarily blinding Vaughn with the harsh glare of the flourescent lights up above. "The CIA is not in the habit of sending their agents on missions of national security simply so that they can 'get away for a few days'."

"Look, I don't care what kind of mission you send me on just as long as it's as far away from L.A. as possible." Vaughn said pleadingly.

Kendall contemplated Vaughn's words quietly. Finally, after a few brief moments of thought, Kendall said, "Perhaps I do have something for you. There is a retrieval mission on tap for Thursday. I believe that Agent Bristow is available to accompany you..."

Vaughn's back immediately straightened, his eyes darkened, and his hands gripped the tabletop in an iron grip at the mention of Sydney's name. He seethed out between clamped teeth, "No! I do not need Agent Bristow to accompany me. I asked for a mission for myself. Alone."

"I'm not so sure that is such a good idea, Agent Vaughn. Sydney Bristow and you are two of the CIA's best agents, and you make an excellent team. Apart, however, you are lessened. You especially, Agent Vaughn. I'm not so sure you have enough field experience to conduct a mission on your own." Kendall's voice was oozing with doubt.

Vaughn narrowed his eyes at Kendall and pinned him with a heated glare. Vaughn's voice lowered as he barely managed to contain his anger. "I can handle a mission on my own. I do not need Agent Bristow to baby-sit me. I have been in this business longer than her you know. I'm fully aware of what I'm getting into."

Kendall still seemed unsure. "That may be true, Agent Vaughn, but I'm still hesitant to send you on a mission on your own. I realize that you have all the necessary qualifications and that you have been on numerous field ops over the last few months, but that doesn't mean you are ready to go solo." Kendall stopped and then added, "Besides, even if I wanted to send you on a mission, the nearest planned op isn't until Thursday and that's two days away."

Vaughn slumped slightly and the fire in his eyes dimmed. Two days? He couldn't wait that long. He needed to get out of L.A. as soon as possible. If he didn't, there was no telling how things would play out. That was a risk he couldn't take. If the CIA wasn't able to send him away, he'd have to take matters into his own hands.

Vaughn sighed, wiped a hand through his hair, and then moved to get up. He was about half way out of his chair when Kendall suddenly said, "However..." Kendall's voice trailed off. A look of trepidation crossed the man's face and Vaughn was immediately intrigued.

Vaughn prompted, "However?"

Kendall hesitated briefly, but finally concluded his statement after only a slight pause. "However, there is a courier mission to London leaving in three hours."

Vaughn's face brightened and for the first time in almost three hours, his anger lessened and he felt relief. "That's perfect. A courier mission sounds easy enough and it's just the kind of thing I need to get out of town."

Kendall shook his head. "I don't know... Being a courier is somewhat outside your realm of expertise, Agent Vaughn. It can be very dangerous."

Vaughn sobered quickly. "I understand that, sir." Vaughn made sure to add the right level of respect to his voice. It sometimes paid to kiss ass; even if that ass did belong to Kendall.

"I don't think you do, Agent Vaughn. Courier missions are normally carried out by SAS personnel. They are the only ones trained well enough to handle the kind of dangers being a courier entails." Kendall cautioned.

Vaughn swallowed nearly imperceptibly. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea. He had no idea that being a courier was so dangerous. He should have known better though. Especially considering the number of times Sydney had to intercept a courier during her many missions with SD-6. He was starting to realize that maybe he was getting in over his head.

But no, Vaughn needed to get away. He just had to. "I understand the dangers involved, sir. I want to do this."

Kendall sighed. "Very well. I suggest you make whatever arrangements necessary for your departure and..." Kendall paused and looked at his watch. "...be back here by 3:30. That's an hour and a half for you to do whatever necessary. You'll get the mission specifics when you return."

Kendall stopped and then shifted uncomfortably. He grimaced and said hurriedly, "Now if you'll excuse me, Agent Vaughn, I must use the restroom."

Kendall stood up and quickly walked out of the break room. Vaughn, meanwhile, stayed seated. He exhaled violently in relief. Thank God! He had been really worried for a few minutes that Kendall was never going to agree to send him on a mission.

Now that that was out of the way, he just had to contemplate what he was going to tell Sydney. If anything. 

He groaned in frustration and rested his head against the cool plastic of the table. How did things get so screwed up? That was a question he was going to need to answer by the time he returned from his trip.

  


**********************

  


"You've got to be kidding me?" Vaughn balked incredulously. 

Kendall nodded his head gravely. "Regulations, Agent Vaughn. All couriers must have their package secured to them at all times."

Vaughn picked up the sturdy handcuff and raised it to attention. "I understand that, but is this really necessary? Do I really need to have that thing handcuffed to my arm?" Vaughn then pointed at the medium-sized, titanium briefcase lying on the desk in front of him.

Kendall sighed and asked pointedly, "Correct me if I'm wrong, Agent Vaughn, but were you not the one that came to me to ask for a mission? Because if you are having a problem with what I'm suggesting, then I'd be more than happy to assign this to someone else; leaving you stuck in L.A."

Vaughn shook his head emphatically. "No! That's all right. I'll wear it; I just thought they only did that kind of stuff in the movies."

Kendall frowned disapprovingly at Vaughn and Vaughn blushed embarrassedly. Kendall continued on, "So, as I was saying, once you arrive in Heathrow you'll be picked up by Agency personnel and transported to the embassy. Once there, you'll drop off the package with the Chief of Station and come back home."

Vaughn asked curiously, "And what is the package?"

Kendall's face hardened subtly and he said curtly, "That's classified, Agent Vaughn. All you need to worry about is delivering the package and completing your assignment."

Vaughn had figured that Kendall wouldn't tell him what was in the package so he wasn't surprised when Kendall shot him down. Kendall droned on, "Do you have any questions?"

Vaughn answered, "Yeah, when do I leave?"

"You'll leave for LAX as soon as your bodyguards get here."

Vaughn was taken aback at that news. "Bodyguards?"

Kendall smiled thinly. "Yes, Agent Vaughn, bodyguards. Couriers always travel with at least two other agents in support. You'll be traveling with three. To better ensure the package gets where it needs to be."

Vaughn should have been insulted by the implication that more agents were needed because he was the courier, but he was too busy questioning whether or not he had gotten in over his head again. He didn't need to leave L.A. that bad...

Kendall cleared his throat, breaking Vaughn out of his internal ruminations. "Agents Willard, Simkin, and Holly should arrive shortly. In the meantime, I have business to conduct. Excuse me."

Vaughn nodded distractedly and Kendall walked away. Vaughn sat down heavily in the black office chair, the springs groaning under the new weight. He quietly stared at the briefcase in front of him and absentmindedly fiddled with the silver handcuff.

It was after a few minutes of blissful quiet that his thoughts were interrupted by a voice he would know anywhere. "When Sydney said she wanted to see you in handcuffs, I don't think this is exactly what she meant, Mike." Eric Weiss said jokingly.

Vaughn groaned and glared up at his best friend. "Ha-ha. That was so funny."

Weiss grinned and sat on the edge of Vaughn's desk. "I thought so too. Glad you appreciated it." Weiss looked down at the briefcase and a frown crossed his jovial face. "What are you, the Agency's UPS man now? Why the hell are you going on a courier mission?"

Vaughn growled, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Does Sydney know you're doing this?" Weiss had his suspicions that whatever was bothering his friend stemmed from his gorgeous, but complicated girlfriend. When he saw Vaughn's reaction to Sydney's name, he knew his suspicions were correct. Mike flinched and his eyes hardened whenever her name was mentioned.

Vaughn growled again, "No, and she doesn't need to know either. This is something that I'm doing on my own."

Weiss couldn't pass up an opportunity like this. "Awww, did poor Mike and Sydney have a fight?"

"Shut up, Eric."

Weiss grinned. "A lover's spat perhaps? What you'd do, forget to leave the toilet seat down?"

"I said, shut up, Eric."

"Come on, Mike! You guys are so sickly sweet together that it's only whenever you guys fight that I get any kind of enjoyment out of life."

Vaughn had had enough. He threatened, "Say one more word and I'll tell Kendall that it's you who's putting laxatives in his jelly donuts."

Eric's eyes widened and he hissed, "You wouldn't dare!"

Vaughn grinned predatorily, "You know I would. Now shut up about me and Syd and go find someone else to bother."

Weiss groaned and mumbled to himself as he walked away. He managed to shoot Vaughn a death glare before he walked out of sight. Making himself feel better at least.

Vaughn watched his friend walk away and then turned his attention back to the briefcase. He once again fiddled with the handcuff as he thought about the days past events. He couldn't believe that Sydney had said those things to him. He had never been more angry before in his life and he knew he was doing the right thing by leaving town. There was no telling what he would say or do if he stayed.

Vaughn was brought out of his ruminations by the sound of heavy footfalls. He looked up in curiosity and his green eyes settled on three men walking towards him purposely. The three men stopped in front of his desk and Vaughn hurriedly stood up out of his chair. He could only assume these were the SAS agents.

The man in the middle of the three addressed Vaughn immediately, "Agent Michael Vaughn?"

Vaughn nodded his head in confirmation and stuck out his hand. The man in the middle grasped it firmly and gave it a short pump. He then let go and introduced himself, "I'm Agent Willard." He then pointed to the man on his left and then the man on the right and said their names respectively, "This is Agent Simkin and Agent Holly. We'll be your escorts."

"Right. Umm...so I guess we leave now?" Vaughn asked, seeking confirmation.

"Yes." Willard then drew Vaughn's attention to the handcuff. "You'll need to put that on now. I'll hold the key and only unlock the cuff on arrival at our embassy."

Vaughn sighed. He really didn't want to put that cuff on. Grudgingly, he picked up the steel piece of metal and clasped it around his right wrist. With the lock firmly in place, Vaughn's fate and the fate of the package he was delivery were permanently intertwined. Whatever happened to that package, happened to him now.

As he was walking out of the door of the JTF, he asked himself for the millionth time since he had confronted Kendall why the hell he had agreed to be a courier. And for the millionth time he got the same answer: he had no fucking clue. He just hoped he survived this mission. He and Sydney had some unfinished business to solve.

  
  


P.S. I will continue this only if I get at least 7 responses (from different people!). This story is really an experiment. It's my first pure action piece. I know it doesn't seem like it now, but things will really pick up in the next chapter. If you like, I continue, if you don't, I stop. It's real simple. I'd like to continue this but I ain't gonna if nobody's reading. So tell me what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Courier

Author: DOKChairman

Time/Spoilers: Don't know; it's a future fic. Assume everything up to "Truth Takes Time" is fair game.

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, at least not at this moment. There was this brief period of time back in '01 where JJ briefly lost the rights to the show to me in a poker game, but he liquored me up on alcohol and somehow managed to convince me that a pair of threes was good enough to beat a full house. That bastard. Just think of all the things I could have accomplished by now if I still ran this show... Damn you JJ!

Warning: This ain't your typical fic. It's bloody, violent, action-packed, full of language, possibly inappropriate humor (actually, this one is a certainty), sex (at least in my mind there is), and maybe, just maybe, some S/V action thrown in. If this don't float yer boat, or send your trailer rockin, don't read on. If, however, you don't mind an adrenaline fueled romp (hehe, I said romp) then please continue at your leisure. Oh, and did I mention that there would be Action Vaughn and Devious Sark? No? Ok, good then. 

  


Dedication: I can't believe I forgot to mention this in the first chapter, but mucho thanks to Vicky and Jeanne for their assistance in making this story less crappy. I really appreciate the things you two girls do for me. Thank you! 

Chapter 2: Can You Hear Me Now?

  


Vaughn ran. He ran, but he knew it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to get away. It wasn't enough to stop the gunshot wound in his stomach from going septic. It wasn't enough to save his life.

Even amongst the noises and sounds of Greater London, Vaughn could hear the steady patter of footfalls approaching him. It was as if they were echoing in his mind. He had been running for what felt like hours. Through alleys, down vacant streets, past crowded pubs full of oblivious patrons, all in an attempt to outrun his pursuer. He never did.

And now he had run himself into a dead end. Fitting, he thought. He brought his left hand away from the makeshift bandage on his stomach to wipe the heavy sweat off his forehead. He was starting to become feverish, and the fact that he had been exerting himself to the brink of utter exhaustion, contributed to a veritable downpour of sweat running down his face. At least it helped clean off the blood and grime, he thought grimly.

Vaughn scurried into the darkest corner of the alley, piling the garbage of the alley in front of him in an attempt to hide. There was a chance, a slight one he knew, but a chance nonetheless that his pursuer would bypass the alley that he had just run down.

Vaughn was just too tired to continue on. The shrapnel slivers embedded in his legs and the wound in his stomach were quickly sucking the life out of him. It had taken nearly all of his effort just to walk down the 50 foot alley. There was no way he could keep running. If only he still had his gun...

A scuffling sound of feet against pavement alerted Vaughn, and then, there he was. Vaughn could just make out the man's shape at the opening of the alley. The man paused at the entrance, his calculating eyes staring down the alley as if he could see through the thick night and piles of odious debris. With a predatory grace, the man started walking into the alley.

Vaughn silently swore to himself. How? How the fuck did He know where he was? No matter what he did, no matter where he went, the man was always there. It just wasn't possible.

He was so close. Just a few more feet and he would find him. Vaughn knew he was dead and the heavy weight tied to his hand would fall into the hands of his enemies. He was a failure. As the man moved closer, Vaughn briefly wondered if this was what his father had gone through before he had met his demise. For some reason, Vaughn thought it entirely possible.

And then he was there. Towering over him with a sadistic grin on his face and a gun in his hand. "I believe you have something I want, Agent Vaughn." The cultured tone of his voice echoed boisterously in the confines of the alley.

All Vaughn managed in response was a pathetic groan. The man reached down and grabbed Vaughn's right wrist in a firm grip. He spoke calmly, as if he was commenting on the morning paper, "This may hurt for a bit, Agent Vaughn, but I assure you, you won't have to worry about the pain for very long." And with that, the man pulled roughly and broke Vaughn's wrist; the cracking sound of the bones breaking deafening to Vaughn's ears. 

Vaughn stifled the scream of pain as best he could, but even still, a whimper escaped his chapped lips. With Vaughn's wrist now broken, the man easily maneuvered the steel handcuff off of Vaughn's arm and picked up the large case. 

The man backed up several steps and cocked the hammer of his 9mm. He pointed the gun at Vaughn's forehead and was about to pull the trigger when suddenly somebody yelled from the entrance of the alley, "Sark!!"

Both men spun their heads to settle on the sight of the newcomer; one in relief, the other in disdain. 

Before Vaughn knew what was going on, they were fighting. Sark tossed the metal case to free up both hands, and was just turning to face the newcomer at the alley when he was attacked. The woman kicked the gun out of his hand and it went flying into the night. Soon, both bodies became a blur of limbs in the darkened night.

Vaughn tried to stand up to help his savior, but he was ineffectual even in his feeble efforts. Too weak, he could not even make it to his feet. After his third attempt he simply gave up and succumbed to the welcome embrace of the solid ground. Besides, for some reason, his limbs felt heavy, as if they no longer worked. Vaughn could barely move.

So, Vaughn watched. Praying that the one he loved most would reign victorious. And for a time, it looked like she would. 

For most of the fight, Sark had been on the defensive, barely stopping crippling blows from striking and getting very few shots of his own in. But then she made a mistake. In an attempt to put Sark down for good, she had swung high and full of power. She had missed. Sark had dodged the blow, letting her forward momentum carry her off balance and over extending herself. Sark used the opportunity to strike her wide open torso, jabbing her hard in the side.

The breath was knocked out of her with the violence of the blow and she went down to her knees. Sark used the lull in the fighting to dive for his gun that rested no more than six feet away. Vaughn once again tried to stand up and help, but this time he didn't even make it half way. His legs felt like they were made of lead and he was short of breath. He was paralyzed.

She dived atop of Sark in an attempt to wrest control of the gun away from him, and a struggle ensued. Both rolled around the dirt encrusted ground of the alley, elbows and knees flying into bodies, in an attempt to achieve victory. Somehow, Sark rolled atop her with the gun pinned between their two bodies.

Vaughn could only watch in abject horror. For a few brief seconds of peace, the fighting stopped, the city of London grew quiet, and the rapid beating of Vaughn's heart became a distant background noise. And then it happened. The shot exploded in the alley, echoing off the walls and deafening all three trapped in its possession.

Both bodies went limp. And Vaughn, paralyzed as much with despair as pain, could only scream out her name as everything darkened. Her name ripped from his lips in an anguished yell as his heart shattered with the thought that that was the last he would ever see of her, "Sydney!!!"

*****************************

  


Vaughn woke with a violent start, Sydney's name still on his lips. He lunged forward out of his cramped chair and violently banged his arm against the seat in front of him. As he came to awareness, he looked wildly around the cabin for any sign of Sydney. Instead, all he saw were several pairs of eyes staring at him quizzically. Vaughn blushed and sunk back into his chair in embarrassment. 

Relief flooded his body as he realized that it had only been a nightmare. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. A small part screamed at him, 'But it had felt so real!' Vaughn did his best to ignore that voice. He would die before he let anything like that happen, he though heatedly.

He wiped his hand across his moist brow and came away with a hand soaked in sweat. This whole Sydney thing had him more worked up than he thought. His doubts about the mission only increased. If he couldn't concentrate, he had to seriously consider pulling himself off the mission.

That was something he had never had to do before and the very idea of pulling himself off a mission because he couldn't control his emotions disgusted him. 'This is why you don't get emotionally attached,' his mind berated him. Even his mind was giving him problems. Vaughn groaned and tried to raise his right hand to massage his temple. It didn't quite make it.

In his agitated mind he seemed to have forgotten that his right arm was currently attached to a large metal case and that said metal case didn't really feel like breaking the laws of physics and suddenly becoming light enough that he could just lift his arm at will. No. Instead, the case decided to just sit in the empty seat next to him, constantly reminding him of the enormity of his decision. What the hell had he been thinking? Since when did _he_ run from his problems?

Vaughn felt a gentle tap on his shoulder and he looked up with heavy eyes into the face of Agent Willard. "Do you mind if I sit here?" Willard asked tentatively.

Vaughn could see the worry in the other man's eyes and he acquiesced to the man's request. Perhaps talking to the other agent would help clear his mind. Sleeping certainly wasn't helping, Vaughn thought sardonically. "Sure. I've got nothing better to do." Vaughn then grabbed the gray case and set it on the ground between his feet. It was a slightly uncomfortable angle for his arm, but it was a manageable discomfort.

Willard settled into the proffered seat next to Vaughn and gave Vaughn a hesitant smile.

A silence overcame both men until Vaughn broke it with a question in order to lighten the mood, "Would you remind me again why we're on a commercial flight?"

Willard grinned amicably. "Under ideal circumstances, we wouldn't be. But courier missions are a frequent operation and the Agency simply can't afford to maintain its own fleet. Besides, the Agency hates the idea of waiting on the military for whenever one of their planes deploys overseas. It's an expedience issue." Willard paused and then said encouragingly, "It's actually not a bad deal. The airlines cut the Agency a huge discount and we never have to worry about not getting to our destination in time."

"In other words, what you're basically telling me is that we've been relegated to coach and forced to sit in these god awful uncomfortable chairs for ten hours straight simply because the Agency is cheap?" Vaughn asked sardonically.

"That's it exactly."

Vaughn groaned dramatically and Willard smiled indulgently. "I can't believe I actually volunteered for this mission," Vaughn complained.

Willard suddenly grew serious at the mention of the mission. "Right, the mission. Let's discuss the SOP. Assistant Director Kendall informed me that this was your first courier mission and that I was supposed to give you a basic rundown of what's expected."

Vaughn followed along, nodding his head in agreement every once in a while. "Once we land in Heathrow, we'll disembark the plane and head for the main concourse. There will be two agents attached to the embassy there to greet us. We'll depart for the embassy immediately after the rendezvous. Hopefully, if all goes as planned, we'll have that thing off your wrist within two hours of our landing."

"Sounds easy enough. How many times have you done this?" Vaughn asked curiously.

"I've done protection detail four times and have been a courier twice, all without incident. Rarely are there any complications, but the Agency doesn't like taking chances," Willard replied.

Vaughn relaxed into his seat in obvious relief. The nightmare had put it him on edge considerably, so it was a huge relief to hear that things would run smoothly.

Willard must have picked up on Vaughn's restlessness and anxiety because he said reassuringly, "Hey, man, relax. We train years for this kind of stuff. I mean, it may be your first time as a courier, but it's not your first mission in the field."

Vaughn nodded his head reluctantly. "I know, I know. It's irrational. Don't worry about me; it's more personal issues back home that are weighing on my mind than concerns about the mission."

Willard nodded his head understandably. "Got it. As long as your head is in the game when we land, we'll be fine."

Vaughn replied seriously, "It will be." 

Suddenly, Vaughn's pocket began to vibrate. He reached his left hand into his jacket and pulled out his cell phone. He spoke into the phone tiredly, "Vaughn."

"I used to think that you were a smart man, Mike, but after today I'm beginning to question that thought. Either you have the biggest pair of balls known to mankind, or else you are the stupidest man to ever walk the face of the planet."

Vaughn groaned. "Hello, Eric."

Weiss continued on, "I can't believe you actually went on this mission without telling Sydney first. She's been looking all over for you."

Vaughn sighed and then put his hand over the phone as he turned his head to speak to Willard. "Do you mind? I kind of want to take this in private. It's those personal issues I was talking about earlier."

Willard shook his head. "Not at all. If it helps you get focused, I'll gladly leave you be."

Vaughn smiled gratefully, "Thanks."

Willard got out of his seat and Vaughn focused his attention back on his phone and Weiss. Not really caring that he'd apparently come in at the end of one of Weiss's sentences, Vaughn waited until he thought Weiss was done, "I told you before I left that I wasn't going to tell Sydney anything."

"I know that, but I didn't think you were actually serious. I mean, you know better than anyone how Sydney gets about these kinds of things."

Vaughn nodded his head, even though he knew Weiss couldn't see him do it. He did know better than anyone how difficult Sydney could be. Especially when you were doing something behind her back, which Vaughn wasn't technically doing. But despite the huge blowup that they had had, he still felt guilty that he had left without telling her. He knew how he would feel if the situation was reversed.

Vaughn sighed and asked, "You haven't told her anything, have you?"

There was a slight pause on Weiss's side, and Vaughn cringed at the extended silence. "Nah, man, I've managed to redirect her attention elsewhere for the time being. But it's only a matter of time before I run out of excuses...or until she runs into Kendall or her father."

It was naive of Vaughn to have thought that he could have gone on this mission without Sydney finding out eventually. "Where is she now?"

"She's at home. I got to say, whatever the hell you guys are fighting about, it has to be bad. I've never seen Sydney like this before. What the hell did you do, Mike?"

Vaughn resented the implication that he had done something wrong. He couldn't stop the anger that entered his voice. He practically barked into the phone, "Why do you automatically assume it was something I did?"

Weiss backpedaled hurriedly, "Hey, I didn't mean anything by it. Whatever happened, I don't want to know. The last thing I need is to get between you two when you're like this. I'm the one likely to suffer."

Vaughn calmed down a bit. "I appreciate your concern, Eric, and thanks for your help with Sydney." Vaughn paused and then said teasingly, "What would I do without you?"

Weiss snort came in loud and clear over the phone lines. "I ask myself that question all the time and something tells me you wouldn't like the answer. Although, there is something you could do to show your appreciation."

Vaughn didn't like the sound of that. He had a feeling that whatever was about to come out of Weiss's mouth would likely be about one of two things: food or women. Neither option was very appealing. Hesitantly, he asked, "What?" 

"Could you bring me back some nuts?" Weiss sounded almost embarrassed when he asked for his favor. Trying to explain himself better, he added, "You know, the kind they give you on your flight."

Vaughn stared at his phone in disbelief. That was what he wanted? "You've got to be kidding me? You want me to bring you back nuts? That's it? Just a bag of nuts?"

Weiss said defensively, "Hey, I like nuts, so what? The ones on the airplanes are the best. You can warm them up and everything."

Vaughn wanted to clarify. "So, in order for you to run interference with Sydney, all you want is a bag of warm nuts?"

"Yeah, but how long I can stall Sydney is anybody's guess. I figure you've got a few more hours until you get an angry phone call wondering why you're half way across the planet and why you didn't even bother to tell her that you were leaving."

Vaughn sighed again. "Well, regardless of what happens, thanks again for your help." Vaughn paused briefly to look up. He saw a flight attendant coming in his direction and he quickly spoke into his phone. "Look, Eric, I gotta go. One of the flight attendants is making her way over and you know how they feel about cell phones. I'll talk to you when I get back."

"Sure thing. Just make sure you don't get your stupid ass killed. Sydney would probably blame me and I don't think my health can take a confrontation with Sydney Bristow. I'll call you when you land and give you a status report on Operation: Bamboozle Sydney. Or, as I like to call it, Operation: Bullshit."

Vaughn smirked and said, "Right. Goodbye, Eric."

Vaughn then hung up his cell phone and rushed to put it back in his jacket pocket. The flight attendant who had stopped at his aisle shot Vaughn a disapproving scowl and Vaughn merely smiled innocently back. The woman continued to stare at Vaughn for a few seconds more, and then moved further back into the plane. 

Vaughn reached down and picked up the metal case and placed it back on its seat. With a small smile Vaughn relaxed as best he could into his seat and tried again to sleep. For some reason, his conversation with his best friend had done wonders for his troubled mind. He was no longer as anxious as he had been. Vaughn closed his eyes and tried to dream of Sydney and himself, and a much happier time. Two minutes later, he was asleep with a smile on his face. This time, his dreams were much more pleasant.

  


**************************

When Vaughn disembarked from the plane, he did so with a spring in his step and a carefree smile on his face. The three hour nap he had managed to get after his conversation with Weiss had revitalized him with a new buoyant energy and he had had a lot time to think over his problems during his long flight over the Atlantic. He was no longer bogged down by anxiety over the mission or angst over his fight with Sydney.

This mission was an opportunity, he told himself. An opportunity to distance himself from Sydney for some much needed space. The last thing he wanted was to somehow irreparably harm his relationship with Sydney. Sure they had fought, and sure he was exceedingly angry with her, but he certainly didn't want the relationship to end. She meant way too much to him for that. Besides, all couples fought occasionally, this just happened to be their first major fight.

Vaughn had no doubt that once this mission was completed and he flew back to L.A., he and Sydney would work things out. He was sure of that. Their relationship was far too strong to be hijacked by issues, albeit serious issues, but issues nonetheless. They would overcome this obstacle, just like any other. A very small part of him worried that they would never recover from the fight, but he refused to listen to that cynical side of his psyche.

"There they are, over there." Willard's surreptitious voice intruded on Vaughn's thoughts and he looked up to see two men waiting discreetly by a newsstand. They were dressed in plainclothes: jeans, long sleeved turtlenecks to fight the bite of the London weather, and black windbreakers. If it hadn't been for Willard pointing them out, Vaughn knew he probably would have never spotted them on his own.

"How do you know it's them?" Vaughn asked curiously.

Willard answered quietly, "The magazines they're looking at. They're the sign. Watch..." Willard's voice trailed off and Simkin made a casual beeline towards the newsstand. Once there, Simkin "accidentally" bumped into one of the two men, knocking the magazine out of his hand. A flurry of words were spoken, none of which Vaughn could make out from his distance, and Simkin made his way back towards the group. 

Simkin reported as soon as he got back. "It's them; all the phrases check out. They have two cars waiting for us in one of the Northern temporary parking lots. We're to meet them there in 20 minutes."

Willard nodded his head, acknowledging the information, and turned to face Vaughn. "I think it would be best if we make our way toward the parking lot now. It's not good to stay idle, even in this airport."

Was Willard asking for his opinion? It wasn't until just then that he realized that despite this being his first courier mission, he was technically the senior agent. He was technically the one in charge. How could he have forgotten something as important as that?

He had been too distracted that's how. Vaughn shook his head in self-disgust. Vaughn knew that he knew better than to let his emotions get the better of him. Well, he was determined not to let his personal problems cloud his judgment any longer. "Sounds like a good idea. Although let's wait for five more minutes. We don't want to arrive too early."

"Agreed. But let's not stay here. Too suspicious." 

The four men moved away from the information kiosk they had been studying and began a lazy circuit around Heathrow's shopping area. After a little over five minutes of aimless walking, the four men started on their way towards their target destination.

On the way, Vaughn's cell phone vibrated in his pocket again. He pulled it out and checked the number on the display and grinned slightly. He answered with a much more welcome tone than the last time, "Hey, Eric." Vaughn checked his watch and was surprised at the time. It was only eight in the morning back home. He had almost forgotten the vast time differences between the two continents. 

"Things aren't going so well, Mike. Operation: Bullshit has been scrubbed. Sydney just walked into headquarters about ten minutes ago. Kendall told her that you were on a mission, but he refused to tell her what kind or where you were. As you can imagine, that did not go over very well with Sydney."

Vaughn chuckled lightly and his smile grew fondly. Watching Sydney tear into Kendall had always been a secret pleasure of his. Despite the circumstances, he was sorry he had missed it. Weiss continued, his voice lowering conspiratorially, "Somehow, she found out that I know where you're at and she's been looking for me ever since she finished with Kendall. So far I've managed to avoid her, but it's only a matter of time."

Vaughn figured it was time he bit the bullet, so to speak. "Look, if she finds you, don't bother denying what you know. Just tell her. I don't want you getting caught in the crossfire. Of course, that doesn't mean I want you to just give me up, but only tell her if she finds you. All right?"

"Yeah. Got it. I'll do my best, but your girlfriend can be very determined when she wants to be. She scares me."

Vaughn noticed that they had reached the parking garage and it was time he ended the phone call. "I gotta go Eric. Call me in about four hours." Vaughn then stopped and looked at the three men watching him and added, "I should be free by then."

Weiss said his goodbyes and Vaughn hung up the phone just as the four of them entered the car park. They spotted the two men from earlier farther down the long line of cars and started on their way towards them.

It didn't take long for them to reach the embassy personnel and introductions were made. The taller of the two men, a large man with broad shoulders and dark brown hair, introduced himself as Agent Brooks. Brooks then introduced the other man as Agent Johnson. Johnson was a few inches shorter than Brooks, but considerably leaner and more intense.

Brooks addressed the group. "Agents Vaughn, Willard, Simkin, and myself will take the lead car. Johnson and Holly will travel in the chase car." Brooks then motioned with his hand to two imposing black Mercedes parked in front of the six men. Vaughn almost felt like whistling in appreciation. At least some part of the Agency knew how to travel in style.

The six men moved to their respective cars and climbed in. Willard climbed into the back, sliding all the way to the right so as to make room for Vaughn. Brooks assumed the driver's seat and Simkin took the passenger seat. Vaughn looked out the tinted windows to see Johnson and Holly get into their own car. Soon, both cars were moving.

The late afternoon traffic outside the airport was relatively heavy and so the two cars traveled at a leisurely pace. Vaughn was tempted to take another nap, but that would have been against mission protocol and Vaughn had already let his own problems cloud his judgment enough for one day. But he needed something to occupy his mind so he asked Brooks, "These standard issue?"

Brooks looked at the rearview mirror and Vaughn saw his eyes looking over him. "You mean the cars?" Vaughn nodded his head and Brooks chuckled lightly. "Not usually, no. But every once in a while the Agency needs a little extra "protection" for its operations. These cars have a Level VI rating and can pretty much handle most small-arms fire. In fact, if it's hit just right, the armor can even handle taking a direct shot from an RPG." 

"Nice. But is all this really necessary?" 

There was no trace of humor in Brooks' voice when he said, "For that thing you've got strapped to your arm it is."

That shut Vaughn up and he slouched back into his seat. He so did not want to hear that. The car grew silent again as Vaughn began to wonder what exactly was inside the metal case at his side.

  


****************************

  


When Sydney finally found Weiss, he was in the last place she would have expected. He was hiding out in the JTF's Tech room, and from the looks of it, he was involved in a pretty spirited argument with the room's occupants. She opened the door quietly and snuck in. When she heard what they were arguing about, she had to clamp her hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud.

She heard Weiss say heatedly, "No way, man! Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia was way hotter than Natalie Portman as Amidala. No comparison. It was the hair, man, the hair!!"

One of the tech guys retorted vehemently, "Hey, Amidala had some whacked out hair as well! Besides, Portman is so much hotter than Fisher ever was."

Sydney figured she better make her presence known before the argument escalated further. Besides, she was supposed to be pissed and if she listened to their argument any longer, she would lose her angry resolve. Clearing her throat loudly, she easily gained the attention of the room.

A smug smile graced her lips when she saw Weiss's face pale. She motioned with her head, and Weiss reluctantly stood up and followed her out of the room. Before she left the room she heard Weiss say, "Guys, if I'm not back in an hour, make sure my parents know I died a hero!"

Sydney scowled and waited impatiently outside the room for Weiss. When he finally walked out and closed the door, Sydney immediately started to interrogate him, "Where the hell is he? What kind of mission is he on? What the hell was he thinking!?"

Weiss took a step backward, trying to put some much needed space between himself and Sydney. "Before I start, I just wanted to say that I was dragged into this whole situation against my will and I can't be held responsible for Mike's mistakes. So, please don't hurt me!"

Sydney growled, "I will if you don't answer my questions right now!"

Weiss swallowed nervously. "Uhh...right. He's in London right now on a courier mission. He's transporting some case, and before you ask, I have no clue what's inside."

"Have you talked to him since he left?"

Weiss shifted his feat uncomfortably and he looked away. Quietly he answered, "Yeah. I've called him a few times."

Sydney's face hardened and she demanded. "Give me your phone."

He didn't know what she wanted with it, but he wasn't about to argue with her when she was like this. Weiss fished it out of his pocket and asked confused, "What do you need my phone for?"

Ignoring his question, Sydney grabbed it forcefully out of his hand and asked, "Was he the last person you called?" Weiss nodded his head. He was starting to catch on now. Sydney added, "If I call from your phone, he won't know it's me until he answers. And I know him, he won't hang up on me, but I need him to answer first."

Weiss's face whitened even more as he looked on, Sydney pressing redial. A few seconds passed as Sydney waited for the connection to be made and she brought the phone up to her ear. Vaughn's voice came over the line loud and clear, and Sydney could detect a faint trace of annoyance. That was good, because then he would understand how she was feeling. "I thought I told you not to call me for another four hours, Eric."

Sydney started in on him immediately, "So you'll tell Weiss where you're going and what you're doing, but you won't tell me?"

She heard Vaughn sigh and then say angrily, "Now is not a good time, Sydney."

Sydney tightened her grip on the phone and yelled into the phone, "Well, that's too damn bad! Did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you really think you could disappear for a few days without me noticing? Not even you are that stupid." Sydney saw Weiss wince off to her side and she realized that she might have gone a little too far with her last comment.

Sydney began to reign her emotions back in, but Vaughn's angry retort got her all worked up again. "I don't owe you a damn thing! You made that pretty clear to me the other night."

Sydney objected, "You're the one who made a big deal out of the situation!"

There was a slight pause and Vaughn lowered his angry tone to a more forceful one when he spoke. "I'm in the middle of a mission, Sydney, and we are not going to have this discussion now. We'll talk about it more when I get back."

  


"No. Either we talk about it now, or don't bother coming back," Sydney spat out. She was letting her emotions get out of control but it was too late to reel them back in. She was horrified at her own words, but she didn't know how to take them back. Vaughn certainly wasn't making it any easier with the way he was acting.

Vaughn responded in disbelief, "You don't mean what you just said. I know you and you did not just say that you would end our relationship like this." 

"I did just say that and I mean it too."

There was a pause, and Vaughn's voice was quiet and doubtful when he returned and said, "I don't believe you. You don't really mean that, Sydne-" Vaughn stopped talking and Sydney heard over the line the piercing squeal of tires screeching against pavement.

Sydney heard a man yell, "Oh shit! Hold on!" And then the sickening impact of metal against metal reverberated across the phone line. 

Sydney felt her heart speed up and panic entered her voice when she asked, "Vaughn!! Vaughn, what's going on?"

Vaughn never answered, instead, she heard a loud thud as Vaughn's cell phone fell out of his hand and impacted against the floor of the car. The phone stayed on and Sydney heard several men yelling at once. Sydney desperately tried to make out Vaughn's voice against the cacophony of sounds coming over the line, but there was just too much going on for her to single out his voice.

"Are you all right, Brooks?"

"Ye...ah. I think my leg is pinned to the seat though."

"Right! Hold on. Where the hell are Johnson and Holly?"

Suddenly, Sydney heard a staccato of gunshots and she felt her blood run cold. 

"Aw shit, we're under fire! Get on the line and contact the embassy! Tell them we've been intercepted."

More gunshots sounded out, this time louder than the first ones, and Sydney could only assume that Vaughn and the agents were firing at their attackers. Sydney could hear the sounds of bullets pinging off the heavy metal of the car and the heavy breathing of the men inside.

Sydney heard a man cry out, "Watch the right. I think I saw some of them moving up along the row of cars!"

Weiss, who had been anxiously standing close to Sydney hoping to hear what was going on, whispered into Sydney's ear, "What's going!? Are they under attack?"

Sydney whipped her head around and glared at Weiss. She snapped, "Yes, and I can't get Vaughn. I don't know what the hell is going on!"

Weiss frowned and then said hurriedly, "I'm going to go alert Kendall. Perhaps we can coordinate an extraction team."

Sydney nodded her head distractedly. She didn't care what Weiss did, all she cared about was hearing Vaughn's voice so that she would know he was okay.

More gunshots echoed across the line and then she heard someone moan. "Uhg...I'm hit! My leg."

A long stream of gunshots sounded and then Sydney heard Vaughn's voice come in clearly over the line, "Damnit! There's three of them...over there! I think they're trying to get close to the car." There was a pause and someone said something but it was too quiet for Sydney to hear. But Vaughn's voice came back on. "I don't know! I think one of them has something in his hand. It looks like a....ah fuck! It's a mine! Everybody out of the car now!!!"

Sydney yelled into the phone, "Vaughn!! Pick up, please!!"

But there was no response.

Eight seconds after Vaughn's alarming announcement, the sound of something slapping against the outside of the car could be heard clearly over Vaughn's cell phone. Five seconds after that, there was a deafening explosion and Sydney had to pull the phone away from her ear.

Her face paled and her body went limp. She had to lean against the wall of the hallway in order to support her body. The last thing she had heard before the phone had gone dead had been Vaughn screaming in pain.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Courier

Author: DOKChairman

Time/Spoilers: Don't know; it's a future fic. Assume everything up to "Truth Takes Time" is fair game.

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, at least not at this moment. There was this brief period of time back in '01 where JJ briefly lost the rights to the show to me in a poker game, but he liquored me up on alcohol and somehow managed to convince me that a pair of threes was good enough to beat a full house. That bastard. Just think of all the things I could have accomplished by now if I still ran this show... Damn you JJ!

Warning: This ain't your typical fic. It's bloody, violent, action-packed, full of language, possibly inappropriate humor (actually, this one is a certainty), sex (at least in my mind there is), and maybe, just maybe, some S/V action thrown in. If this don't float yer boat, or send your trailer rockin, don't read on. If, however, you don't mind an adrenaline fueled romp (hehe, I said romp) then please continue at your leisure. Oh, and did I mention that there would be Action Vaughn and Devious Sark? No? Ok, good then. 

  


Dedication: This story is dedicated to Cat and to Vicky, words are not needed to explain how you help me. You already know. Thank you all! Oh, and thanks to Jude who helped me with the teaser.

Chapter 3: The Running Man

  
  


Vaughn looked tiredly out the window and rubbed a weary hand across his forehead; exhausted inside and out. Traffic was moving far too slowly for his tastes and it was beginning to get on his nerves. The quicker he could get the case he carried off his arm, the quicker he could relax. The silver case had become the physical embodiment of the anxiety weighing heavily on his mind.

Despite his best attempts to the contrary, Vaughn could not stop thinking about Sydney. Of course, when was he not thinking about Sydney, he thought negatively. Like the many times before, however, his thoughts were far from pleasant-they were full of anxiety, apprehension, and even a touch of fear. His emotional high off of his conversation with Weiss those many hours ago had finally died down, and he was beginning to face the stark reality that all was not as optimistic as he had previously believed. 

He still had faith in their ability to get through their problems, but he no longer believed that doing so would be as easy as he had previously thought. He sighed loudly and turned his face away from the window. He should not be thinking these things; he should be focused on the mission. There seemed to be a lot of things lately that he _should_ be doing, but wasn't, he thought scornfully.

When Vaughn turned his head away from the window, his eyes locked with the eyes of the man sitting to his right. Willard was looking him over with a critical gaze. Vaughn could clearly see the doubt and apprehension written in the lines on the other agent's face. Vaughn grimaced internally and forced himself to maintain eye contact.

Vaughn sighed, "Is there something you want, Agent Willard?"

Willard maintained his critical stare for a few seconds longer and then abruptly turned his head away. He shook his head slightly and mumbled, "Uh, no. I was just thinking."

Silence settled over the car again, a heavy blanket that suffocated the occupants inside. Vaughn suddenly felt stifled and claustrophobic. God, his nerves over Sydney were wreaking havoc with his mind. In an attempt to think about something else-_anything_ else-Vaughn tried to strike up conversation with Willard. In a hesitant tone, he asked, "So, um...how long have you been with the Agency?"

Willard was momentarily caught off guard by the abrupt randomness of Vaughn's question, but he quickly composed himself and answered, "I've been with the Agency for a total of 12 years, and with the SAS for the last five. Why?"

Vaughn shrugged his shoulders. "No reason. It's just we've spent all this time together and I know nothing about you." Willard arched an eyebrow and Vaughn smiled sheepishly. "All right, I'm bored and I need somebody to talk to or else I'll fall asleep."

Willard grinned in response, his teeth alarmingly white against his rough exterior. "I would think you'd be used to these sudden trips overseas. Your files says that you make these kind of trips at least once every two weeks."

Vaughn was taken aback by the knowledge that Willard had read his file. "You've read my file?" Vaughn asked stunned.

Willard's smile faltered a bit at the surprise on Vaughn's face. "Yeah. Assistant Director Kendall gave me a copy of your file and told me to study your psych profile and operational history. He said that I needed to know who I was dealing with in case things went south."

Vaughn's face soured and he said bitterly, "In other words, he wanted to know if you thought I could handle the mission."

"In a word, yes." Vaughn stiffened in response and Willard hastened to continue, "I don't think he was questioning your competence per se, but more like making sure that I knew your limits and what you were capable of."

"I don't understand. If he was so skeptical of my competence, why did he agree to let me go in the first place?" 

Willard shrugged. "Don't know. I just follow my orders. What the higher ups are thinking is way outside my realm of expertise." Willard paused for a moment, considering his next words. "Although, I must say," he started to say, with an uneasy expression, "that for a person who spent most of their career sitting behind a desk, you have managed to accrue an impressive record." Once he had started, the expression on Willard's face softened, apparently judging that his comment had had the desired effect as he could see a smile forming in Vaughn's eyes. A secret smile on his face, he went on to finish, "Quite a number of successful missions you have been a part of. SD-6?" 

Vaughn blushed slightly at Willard's compliment but quickly moved to correct him, "Nah, I didn't--I didn't really do much. It really wasn't just me, my asset at the time is largely responsible for most of it all--for the takedown of SD-6. As for the other missions, I always had a good team behind me. They're the ones who deserve most of the credit."

Brooks, who had been surreptitiously listening to the conversation between Vaughn and Willard, commented, "And he's modest as well. Jesus man, the women must love you."

Vaughn smiled embarrassedly and said, "I wouldn't know. And even if they did, I think my girlfriend would scare them all away."

All the men let out a quiet chuckle at Vaughn's comment. It was at that moment that Vaughn's phone vibrated irritatingly inside his jacket pocket. Vaughn frowned, his forehead wrinkles showing prominently on his face, and reached into his pocket to pull out his phone. He looked at the caller ID and rolled his eyes at the number displayed. 

Hadn't he told Eric not to bother him for the next few hours, he asked himself sourly. Not that that mattered much where his best friend was concerned. It was typical Weiss to just ignore what he had asked in order to annoy him needlessly.

Vaughn brought the phone up to his ear, tired and irritated, and said sharply, "I thought I told you not to call me for another four hours, Eric."

The voice that greeted him did not belong to his best friend and it jarred him a bit at the recognition that it was someone else. The voice spoke, "So you'll tell _Weiss_ where you're going and what you're doing, but you won't tell me?"

Vaughn sighed loudly at the realization that the person on the opposite end was an extremely angry Sydney. This was the last thing he needed: to have a fight with his girlfriend while on a mission was one thing, but to have a fight with his girlfriend while there was a large metal case attached to his arm and he was in a situation where three complete strangers would overhear everything that he said was another matter entirely.

Before he could stop himself, he said angrily, "Now is not a good time, Sydney."

Vaughn could not believe that this was happening to him, and his face colored in embarrassment. Due to the nature of the limited space of the car, there was no way that the three other men would not hear everything. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he searched out the face of the man next to him. Willard's face had taken on a look of disapproval, but to Vaughn's relief, he seemed to be pointedly ignoring everything that Vaughn was doing. Brooks and Simkin seemed to be doing the same as well. Both men had their eyes firmly glued forward, and while Vaughn knew that they could still hear everything, he felt as if they had given him some much needed space.

Sydney's loud and angry voice jarred him back to the conversation, "Well, that's too damn bad! Did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you really think you could disappear for a few days without me noticing? Not even _you_ are that stupid." 

Anger welled inside of Vaughn and he barked into the phone, "I don't owe you a damn thing! You made that pretty clear to me the other night."

Willard coughed into his hand and Vaughn was sharply brought back to the reality that he was not alone. He took a deep breath and tried to get himself under control. He could not afford to lose it. At least not here. Sydney replied to his angry retort with equal enthusiasm, "You're the one who made a big deal out of the situation!"

Vaughn managed to get his temper under control and he said forcefully, "I'm in the middle of a mission, Sydney, and we are not going to have this discussion now. We'll talk about it more when I get back."

Vaughn heard Sydney vehemently spit out, "No. Either we talk about it now, or don't bother coming back." Vaughn had to pull the phone away from his ear and stare at it in disbelief. He did not just hear Sydney say that she was willing to end their relationship over this fight.

Vaughn moved the phone back to his ear and said, "You don't mean what you just said. I know you and you did not just say that you would end our relationship like this."

When Sydney responded there was a feel of finality to her words, "I did just say that and I meant it too."

Vaughn felt a pit form deep in his stomach and for the first time since the fight, he felt a real sense of fear. 'This was not happening' became his desperate mantra as he faced the very real possibility that the best relationship with the only woman he had ever truly loved could end over the phone. Quietly, he said, "I don't believe you. You don't really mean that, Sydne-"

Vaughn never finished his sentence. His head shot up when he heard the ear piercing scream of tires screeching against the road. Vaughn looked towards the front of the car and saw Brooks yank the steering wheel violently to the left. It didn't matter. Brooks yelled out, "Oh shit! Hold on!" 

Unfortunately, Brooks warning was not fast enough for Vaughn to prepare himself fully for the inevitable impact. Vaughn was slammed bodily against the door and he let out an explosive breath. He groaned in pain and his cell phone slipped weakly out of his numb left hand. 

Vaughn sat stock still, recovering his bearings and trying to determine the extent of his injuries. His shoulder hurt like hell, but that was to be expected. It was his neck and head that he was more worried about. The force from the impact had caused his neck to snap almost as violently as a whip lash, and he could feel the stress on his spine from the snapping. It had only been his reflexes, from hours upon painstaking hours of training and natural athletic ability, that had prevented his head from slamming into the door at full force. Even still, he had gotten a rather nasty gash on his forehead and he could feel the warm blood sliding down his face. He knew how lucky he was-he could have easily broken his neck, let alone suffered a concussion.

With his survey of his body complete, Vaughn tentatively turned his head, careful not to put too much strain on his sore neck, and looked out the left rear window.

The Mercedes had come to rest almost 45 degrees from its original heading, the front end ramming the car in the next lane. That car had in turn been rear-ended by the car behind it and a general pile up had occurred. Vaughn could see disoriented people getting out of their cars and wandering around aimlessly, trying to determine what had happened. That was something Vaughn would have loved to know himself.

Vaughn righted himself and struggled to unbuckle his seatbelt to give himself more freedom of movement, but the damn thing was being difficult. Still struggling, he yelled out, "Is everyone all right?"

He turned his head to his right and saw Willard nod in affirmation, Simkin did the same. But Brooks, whose portion of the car had taken the brunt of the impact, let out a weak groan. Vaughn frantically asked, "Are you all right, Brooks?"

Brooks head lolled to the side and he struggled to lift his head. There was a large gash running up his right cheek and blood was smeared on his face. Brooks struggled to speak and when he did his voice was weak, "Ye...ah. I think my leg is pinned to the seat though."

Vaughn nodded his head slightly and began to assess the situation. Brooks needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible. Simkin and Willard seemed to be in relatively decent shape although Willard was already sporting a growing bruise on his face. Vaughn uttered, "Right! Hold on. Where the hell are Johnson and Holly?"

Vaughn let out a little cry of victory as the seatbelt finally came undone and turned to face Willard as soon as he started speaking, "I don't know! Last I saw, they were right behind us." Willard paused and then said to Simkin, "Get on the com and find out their situation. I'll go and see what the hell happened."

Simkin began trying to reach Johnson or Holly while Willard undid his jacket and unhooked the strap that held his gun in place inside his holster. He turned to Vaughn and said, "You stay in here. If anything happens, being inside this car is the safest place you can be." Vaughn grunted quietly in response and Willard slowly opened the rear right door of the black Mercedes. Willard kept his left hand firmly attached to the door while his right hand rested on the butt of his gun.

Willard did his best to keep as much of his body behind the protective armor of the car door as he began stepping out into the open. He had made it about halfway out of the car when the staccato sound of gunshots rang out in front of him. He immediately leapt backwards into the car and closed the door as he did. Several pings sounded as the bullets impacted against the metal of the car.

Willard shouted out to Simkin, "Shit, we're under fire! Get on the line and contact the embassy! Tell them we've been intercepted."

Simkin stopped trying to reach the chase car and started barking into the com. Meanwhile, both Willard and Vaughn had drawn their weapons. Both men turned towards each other and Vaughn asked, "What do we do? Brooks can't move and I don't think this car will be able to run. We're boxed in."

Willard grew contemplative and then a serious look overcame his face. He said, "We have no choice. Going out into the open would be suicide. This car is the safest place for us right now. We can't leave."

Simkin interrupted Vaughn and Willard, "I couldn't get through to either Holly or the embassy. They're jamming us somehow." Simkin stopped and sharply turned his head to his left. Both Vaughn and Willard followed suit and Simkin suddenly opened his door and drew his gun. Before anyone could ask what he was doing, Simkin fired three times and Vaughn could just make out a man falling to the ground, clutching his stomach. Simkin fired two more times and jumped back inside the car when their attackers returned fire. Simkin turned his head and spoke sharply, "There were two of them, trying to swing around. I got one of them, but the other one made it to that group of cars over there. The fuckers are surrounding us."

Willard cursed silently and sighed. Vaughn knew that if they didn't do something soon, they would all be screwed. Simkin asked hopefully, "Is there any chance we can make it to Johnson and Holly?"

Willard shook his head haltingly. "We don't even know where they are, or if they are even still alive. It's too risky. Staying right here is still th-"

Brooks, who had been largely quiet since Vaughn had asked if he was okay, blurted out in a strained voice, "Watch the right. I think I saw some of them moving up along the row of cars!"

Willard opened his door and dropped to one knee. He used the door for cover as best he could and started firing at four men moving up alongside them, using parked cars and other assorted objects on the sidewalk for cover. They returned fire and the car became riddled with bullets. Simkin also opened his door and crawled out, making sure to stay low to the ground. He started firing at what now looked like three men taking cover in the entryway of a store to their left. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you looked at it, there was a row of cars in-between Simkin and the three men he was shooting at. That was making it difficult for Simkin to get a clear shot, but the reverse was also true.

Meanwhile, Vaughn was forced to sit impotently inside the armored car. A feeling of utter uselessness overcame him as he heard the angry retorts of the raging gun battle. He felt like he should be doing something, instead of just sitting in the car. Simkin and Willard were risking their lives, and he was doing nothing. And it was all because of the damn case attached to his arm. Vaughn regretted ever agreeing to carry the stupid thing.

Vaughn was yanked out of his depressing thoughts by a sharp yelp of pain coming from Willard. Vaughn turned his head to his right to see Willard slumped up against the car, the top half of his body awkwardly lying on top of the plush leather of the backseat. Willard moaned in pain and said through clenched teeth to Vaughn, "Ugh...I'm hit! My leg."

Motivated by Willard's agony, Vaughn leapt into action. He quickly slid to his right and grabbed the front of Willard's sweater with his left hand. With a nearly Herculean effort, he pulled Willard's entire body up and into the safety of the car. Willard collapsed atop the backseat, lying horizontal along the curiously undamaged leather. Vaughn moved to the floor, leaning over the bleeding Willard, and quickly began exploring his wound.

Vaughn was no doctor, but all agents had to take a basic first-aid course during CST and so it was with that basic knowledge that he studied the thumb-sized hole in Willard's right thigh. Not that he needed even first-aid to know that the rapidly bleeding wound in Willard's leg was a very bad thing. Holes in the body generally were-even the ones you were supposed to have.

Vaughn needed to stop the bleeding. He frantically looked for anything that he could use, when his green eyes finally settled on the belt wrapped around Willard's waist. He immediately began unfastening the belt, but things were not going as fast as he would have liked. He only had one free hand, and it wasn't like he had a lot of experience taking off other men's belts. Finally, after a few arduous seconds of work, he pulled the belt free and began the process of tying off the wound. Thankfully, making the tourniquet around Willard's thigh went decidedly smoother and he was able to get it set within a few seconds. 

Vaughn looked up from the wound to Willard's face and felt a knot form in his stomach. Willard was already deathly pale and a fine sheen of sweat had formed along his forehead. This was not good. Willard needed to get to a hospital right away if he was going to have any chance. 

Vaughn tried to school his features into a mask of confidence and optimism but Willard saw right through his facade, and a bitter smile of humorless acceptance graced his lips. Willard rasped weakly, "It's bad isn't it?"

Vaughn briefly considered lying to him, but he quickly forewent that decision. It would be doing Willard a disservice to lie to him now. Vaughn shook his head in the affirmative and said quietly, "Yeah, it's not good. I think the bullet may have nicked your femoral artery. If we don't get you to a hospital soon, you'll bleed out and die."

Willard stared briefly into Vaughn's eyes and then nodded his head in acceptance. There was nothing they could do and he knew it. Leaving the safety of the car would be suicide. All they needed to do was live long enough for the London police to show up, which could be a minute from now or twenty minutes. With the surrounding traffic, it was anybody's guess. None of which foretold a good outcome for Willard.

"I'm gonna get you to a hospital,"Vaughn said determinedly. Vaughn then began to wrap his left arm under and around Willard's shoulder. He started to drag him backwards, intending to pull him out of the car on the opposite side, away from the more concentrated fire coming from in front of them, but he didn't get far. With a surprisingly firm grip, Willard grasped Vaughn's arm and gritted out, "No. You are not too leave this car under any circumstances. That package can not...must not fall into enemy hands."

Vaughn looked down, flabbergasted, at the dying man in his arms. "But you'll die if we don't!"

Willard nodded his head in affirmation and said, "Then I die."

Vaughn shook his head. He refused to just accept that. What the hell was he carrying that was worth another man's life? Was it really worth all this? Vaughn was sorely tempted to just say "Fuck it" and give them the damn thing, but his sense of duty and loyalty to his country overrode that brief feeling of weakness. No. He had a mission to do, and he was going to do it or he was going to die. There was no middle ground. 

Vaughn looked up and through the passenger-side window and swore under his breath. He slid forward, hand reaching for his gun, and pushed open the car door in one smooth motion. He stuck his arm out and pulled the trigger rapidly. The gun bucked violently, as he fired six rounds at three men trying to advance on the car. None of the men were hit, but they were forced to hunker down behind an abandoned car.

Vaughn pulled his arm back into the car and yelled, "Damnit! There's three of them...over there! I think they're trying to get close to the car." 

Willard, from his horizontal position on the backseat, asked Vaughn hurriedly, "What are they doing?"

Two of the men started letting loose a steady stream of fire, as the third one began moving closer and closer to the car. The heavy wall of lead, combined with the approaching man's weaving between cars, prevented Vaughn from mounting any kind of counter-attack. The only thing he could do was try and determine what exactly the man was up to-whatever it was, there was no way it would be good. Why else would he be running towards them, instead of away?

Vaughn began feeling a deep sense of dread. This was most definitely not good, and Vaughn felt an intense sense of frustration at his inability to do anything. He snapped a response to Willard's question, "I don't know! I think one of them has something in his hand. It looks like a..." Vaughn's face paled when he recognized the object in the man's hand, and he shouted, "...ah fuck! It's a mine! Everybody out of the car now!"

In Vaughn's haste to exit the car, and pull Willard along with him, he dropped his gun on the ground. But he couldn't worry about that now. If he didn't get out of the car soon, whether or not he had a weapon would soon be a moot point.

He scrambled backwards until his back came into contact with the unyielding door of the Mercedes. He had to briefly let go of Willard to reach around behind him and pull the lever to open the door. Willard, meanwhile, was yelling at Vaughn to let him go and save himself, but Vaughn was having none of that. He wasn't going to leave Willard to die just to save himself. 

The door finally popped open and Vaughn quickly leapt backwards and out of the car. He fell on his ass, hard, with Willard landing on top of him. Both men let out grunts of pain, Willard more than Vaughn as his leg had been jarred in the fall. Vaughn started moving backwards, but he was not moving nearly fast enough. Willard was for all intensive purposes dead weight, and he was slowing Vaughn down considerably. But Vaughn refused to leave him.

There was a loud clanging sound as something was slapped against the car and Vaughn knew that the magnetic limpet mine had just been attached to the black Mercedes. He had literally seconds before the mine exploded and he was only three feet away from the car. He wasn't going to make it completely out of the blast radius in time.

The SPM limpet mine, built in the former Soviet Union of course, was roughly the size of an enlarged cigarette pack. It only weighed 2.6 kg, but almost half of that was devoted to its explosive payload. The directional charge, built to create small holes in the keel of a ship, blew straight through the armor of the black Mercedes, and simultaneously lifted the car into the air. 

Vaughn, Willard, and Simkin barely survived the explosion of the mine. Brooks was not as lucky. 

The impact of the white van slamming into the Mercedes at close to 45 miles per hour had done little to damage the car, but it had done enough. It had done what it was intended to do: take the driver out of the equation and prevent the car from leaving. The metal of the car had folded upon Brooks' right leg, shattering it and pinning it to the seat. His spleen had also ruptured and three ribs along his right side had broken under the power of the impact. There had been a good chance that Brooks would have died from his injuries, if he had not received immediate medical attention, but there had also been a chance that he would live. The limpet mine slapping against the outside of the fuel tank had nullified that chance.

The Mercedes exploded in a fireball, killing Brooks instantly, and sending the car flying into the air. The shockwave flew out in all directions, shattering windows of cars and buildings alike. Vaughn and Willard were showered in shrapnel and glass, the flying missiles digging into their skin. Simkin, who had been the farthest away from the explosion, had been thrown into the side of a car. He had thrown out his arm to stop his momentum, but had only succeeded in breaking the appendage.

Vaughn felt several sharp and hot pinpricks of pain along his legs as the shrapnel from the car became embedded in his skin, and he screamed in agonized pain. The shrapnel was still burning. He quickly thrust his left hand to his legs and tried to remove the shrapnel from his legs. Willard went slack on top of him and Vaughn looked down. He stilled. Willard was a mess. His body had protected Vaughn from most of the damaging effects of the explosion, and it showed. His legs were torn to pieces and what remained of his pants were on fire. There were several bleeding wounds along his torso and a long gash starting from the base of his neck extended all the way to his forehead. His eyes were closed and he was taking quick, shallow breaths.

If Vaughn was honest with himself, he was amazed the man was still alive. The bullet wound in his thigh alone should have been enough to kill him. Yet, he was still breathing and to Vaughn that meant there was still a chance to save him. 

Forgetting about his legs, he looked up and searched for Simkin. He saw him about ten feet away, leaning up against a car with his left arm cradled to his chest. Simkin was in the process of reloading his gun, but it was obvious he didn't have much experience doing it one handed. Vaughn started to move towards him, and that's when he remembered the case.

He looked down and noticed for the first time that the skin of his wrist was a glaring red. The heat from the explosion must have warmed the metal of the handcuff, and in turn, burnt the skin around it. Vaughn had never even felt the pain. The case itself was relatively unscathed. Whatever they made it out of, they made it to last. It was pockmarked with the occasional gash, a rather nasty sized one traversed the lower right side, but it was still in one piece. Vaughn still wasn't sure if that was good thing or a bad thing.

He had more important things to focus on though. He wrapped his left arm back around Willard and began moving both of them to Simkin. After about 15 seconds of intense effort, in which Vaughn found himself oddly out of breath, he sidled up to Simkin and collapsed against the reassuring backdrop of the car. 

After taking a few gasping breaths of air, he turned to Simkin and asked, "How are you doing?"

"My left arm is broken and I'm down to my last clip of ammo. You?"

Vaughn gently moved Willard off to the side and turned to face Simkin. "I'm fine. My legs took a beating and my wrist is burned, but other than that, I'm okay." Vaughn absently left out his neck injury.

Vaughn saw Simkin try to stifle a smile. Confused, he asked, "What?"

Simkin chuckled slightly, "Oh nothing. It's just your face."

Vaughn felt a stab of fear. "What about my face?" he asked panicked.

Simkin smirked. "It's just that you're kinda, well, you're kinda missing your eyebrows."

Vaughn hadn't expected that. "Oh." Then he saw the smile on Simkin's face broaden and he frowned, which only seemed to make Simkin smile even more. "Oh, ha-ha. I'm glad you find my disfigurement amusing."

Simkin grinned and said, "Sorry, man. Every little bit helps."

Vaughn frowned some more and then reached to behind his back and pulled out two clips of ammunition and handed them to Simkin. "Here. I lost my gun in the car before it blew and I have no clue what happened to Willard's."

Simkin wiped the smile from his face and took the two clips of ammunition out of Vaughn's proffered hand somberly. He said, "Right. We need to move. We can't stay here. It's only a matter of time before they move on our position."

Vaughn was in partial agreement. "I agree, but go where? How far is the embassy from here? How many of them are there? Where the hell are the cops!?"

Simkin shrugged his shoulders slightly and said, "All good questions, Vaughn, but that's all they are. We don't have time to sit here and answer them. We have to move. Now."

Simkin turned his head away from Vaughn and began scanning the surrounding area. His eyes settled on an alley between two buildings about 100 feet away. From his vantage point, he couldn't tell if the alley ended or continued through. It would be a calculated risk taking the alley, but it was better than the alternative of staying out in the open. At least the alley would limit the avenues of attack.

Simkin turned back and fixed Vaughn with a steady gaze. He nodded his head in the direction of the alley and said, "There. We'll head for that alley. If we're lucky, we'll be able to move through to the other side, if not, we'll at least have a more defensible position. We'll wait 'em out."

Vaughn could see no reason to argue and just nodded his head in response. He climbed to his knees, groaning in pain. The pain was almost too intense, and he had to settle himself for a few seconds to recover. He finally felt stable enough to stand, and he did so awkwardly. He felt a hand on his arm and he looked up to see Simkin frowning at him.

Simkin asked concerned, "How hurt are you? Can you move?"

Vaughn contemplated his answer for the briefest of seconds. "I think so. The pain is pretty intense, but I'm fairly certain I can run if I have to."

Simkin seemed about to argue Vaughn's assertion, but the feeling must have passed because Simkin nodded his head and began to move away. Vaughn finally reached his full height, felt a white hot stab of pain, and quickly pushed the pain out of his mind. He could moan and groan about his pain later, when he was still alive to do so.

He leaned down to Willard and started to wrap his left arm around the unconscious man, but he was stopped by the hard voice of his partner, "Leave him."

Vaughn froze and spun around to face Simkin. Angrily, he hissed, "Leave him!?"

Simkin responded coolly, "Yes, leave him. He'll only slow us down."

Vaughn shook his head vigorously. "You can't be serious."

Simkin glared coldly at Vaughn. "I am completely serious. You think I want to leave him? I've worked with him for five years! I've met his kids, been to his home! I don't want to see him dead anymore than you do, but this is the life we signed on for, and the mission ALWAYS comes first. Do you understand?" Before Vaughn could even respond, Simkin continued, just as angry and curt, "Now leave him and come on!"

Vaughn glared angrily at Simkin, but he couldn't help but see the underlying logic of his argument. With a reluctant and heavy heart, he let Willard slip out of his grasp. The unconscious agent settled back to the ground and Vaughn grabbed the large metal case with both hands in a firm grip.

He straightened and began to walk towards Simkin who had just turned around to spur him on. "Come on, Agent Vaughn, we don't have all fucking day! Let's get a mo-"

Simkin never finished his sentence. The bullet impacting against Simkin's upper right temple was almost simultaneous with the sound of the gunshot. A splash of blood flared out from his temple, the entry point of the bullet relatively clean. While Simkin crumbled lifelessly to the ground, a bloody pool formed around his head, like some kind of perverse halo.

Before Vaughn even knew what he was doing, he had dropped to the ground and had begun crawling towards Simkin's body. He had to get Simkin's gun. It was his only chance. Bullets tore into the ground in front and to the right of him, and he rolled to the left to avoid the fire. Tiny little flakes of asphalt and concrete exploded up and outward with the impact of each bullet, and they bit into his face, shredding the skin.

Vaughn swore. They were keeping him away from the body with their fire. He scrambled to a car and quickly crawled behind it to use its bulk as cover. He carefully poked his head around the bumper to get a look. Four men were slowly but systematically making their way towards him. They were about 200 feet away and he could clearly see the weapons in each man's hands. Without a weapon himself, he was pretty much screwed.

The alley. It was his best hope. Hell, he thought desperately, it was his only hope. He could hear sirens in the background, but they sounded too far away for them to be of any use to him. He'd be long dead and the case he was carrying would be in enemy hands long before the London police showed up. He couldn't wait. He had to run. And so he did. 


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Courier

Author: DOKChairman

Time/Spoilers: Don't know; it's a future fic. Assume everything up to "Truth Takes Time" is fair game.

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. I don't own anything, really. I am in fact a poor person with no worldly goods. If you would like to take pity on me and donate money to my Poor Writer's Fund, please send me an e-mail with your offer. Thank you.

  
  


Chapter 4: The Virtue of the Penitent Man

  


It was an abandoned building, as they most often were, that housed the epicenter of the Arctic Circle. They were the eyes of glaciers, glancing from screen to screen with the speed of their personifying namesake, absorbing every detail with meticulous concentration. It was as if God had poured ice into his body, forming crystals for his soul, but his blood was as hot as any other. The eyes were a facade, hiding the molten pit of rage boiling in the deepest part of his psyche. It was a volcano that rarely erupted, instead lying dormant and waiting. Waiting for the sounds of Pompeii to echo and the gods to grow vengeful. 

Vengeance. It was a feeling he was untowardly accustomed to, and he hated that he had become like so many others in his profession. Unprofessional, careless, and ultimately stupid. He did not want to assume their place among the annals of the dead and imprisoned. Patience, he knew, was one of man's best weapons, and so he dampened the rage building inside of him with a few flakes of his soul.

But it was not easy. Few things in life ever were, the man known as Sark knew. Much like the never-ending years of his adolescence, he could not wait for the images of death and destruction to disappear from before his eyes. It was not that he found the images distasteful, for he had participated in far worse, but it was what the images represented: Failure. 

For that was the root of his rage. They had failed. Despite all their careful planning, despite all their training and the painstaking hours of analyzing, they had ultimately failed in their mission. Three months, they had planned this ambush. Three months, and all his work, all his time and devotion to putting together a competent team of former Spetnaz and KGB agents was slowly dissolving into one hell of a clusterfuck.

He let out a barely audible sigh as he continued to listen dispassionately to the report from the retrieval team, the fingers of his right hand digging ruthlessly into his palm. It was all he could do not to erupt, and shatter what remained of the mission with the heat of his fury.

Everything had gone perfectly. Their inside information had been flawless, they had taken out the chase car without the lead car even knowing anything had happened, and they had sprung their ambush and disabled the lead car in the right spot to maximize exposure to their avenues of fire. Everything had gone perfectly . . . that is, Sark felt the rage build up inside of him to an almost overpowering level, until the idiots in the retrieval team had placed the mine on the car too late for it to do any good.

Sark listened to the end of the report, and slowly pulled the headset off of his head. He carefully placed it down on the desk with the exhaustive communications suite that he had had installed, and slowly spun on his heel to face the handpicked members of his own courier team. Sark took several short, but deep breaths, and felt his face fall back into its customary emotionless visage. Mt. Vesuvius was calming, and Sark was infused with profound gratitude. "It appears as if there has been a change of plans," Sark said smoothly in his hard earned serene tone. "The retrieval team has run into some complications and have not yet secured the package."

There was a snort of disgust from Pavel Fedorov, the quintessential Russian bear that Sark had picked to carry the package once it was safely in his possession. Sark was sorely tempted to let his agreement with Pavel's assessment of the retrieval team show outwardly, but he knew such obvious display of condemnation would do nothing to improve the current situation. Sark merely nodded and continued on, changing the plan that had taken three months to devise off the top of his head, "Obviously, this changes things. The good news is that everyone in the lead car was neutralized by the mine, with the exception of the courier. The bad news, and the current source of our problems, is that the courier is on foot and rapidly moving out of the operational area. If we don't contain him soon, there is a good chance he will escape to the American embassy."

Sark paused and stared levelly at all four of the men standing in front of him. "I do not need to tell you why that is completely unacceptable. Not only to me, but to our employers as well. That package must not be allowed back into CIA hands."

Pavel shifted his feet and pulled his wool jacket closer to his body. He spoke, his heavily accented English rumbling deeply from inside his chest, "Something tells me that we are going to be earning our pay a lot earlier than we thought."

Sark smiled a thin, grim smile, and his glacial eyes froze into solid ice. "Quite right. Because of the casualties that the retrieval team suffered during the ambush, they do not have enough men to properly search for the courier. We are to leave immediately, swing around, and come at the courier from the north, boxing him in between us and the rest of the retrieval team."

The four men nodded their heads in response, and Sark reached into a pocket on his black coat. He pulled out a small device and pressed a button, the large video screen on the wall behind him coming to life. "This is our target, Agent Michael Vaughn..."

  


***

  


Michael Vaughn was in trouble. His legs felt as if on fire, and they were increasingly beginning to feel like rubber appendages. He had only ran a hundred feet, just to the mouth of the alley, and yet he already felt as if his body was ready to give up. He didn't understand. Just a few seconds ago, he had felt relatively fine, and now he did not know if he would make it to the other side of the alley. But he knew he couldn't stop.

He pushed away from the grime encrusted brick wall that he had been resting against for a few heavenly seconds of respite, and continued running. The alley was dark, despite the time of day, and Vaughn found himself dodging debris that would appear as if invisible one second and suddenly insurmountable the next. But he kept running, holding the bane of his existence close against his chest.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, he saw light at the end of his bleak tunnel. He pushed himself harder, faster in the hope that he would reach freedom. The sounds of yelling and the footfalls of angry men reverberated along the alley walls to his straining ears, and once again he dug deep inside himself to move with the speed of a desperate man. 

For one of the few times in his life, the needs of the mission became secondary to the needs of his own desires. He pushed himself so that he could live. Live not to deliver the valuable case attached to his arm, but to live in the hopes of seeing Sydney one last time and righting what wrongs existed between them. It was a feeling anathema to his normal way of thinking, but he knew, was honest enough with himself to know, that Sydney was the one thing in his life that would always be above everything else. Even devotion and duty to one's country. It was not a thought that he was comfortable with, nor was it one he often admitted to himself that it existed, but he knew it was there nonetheless.

For he had let that thought dictate his actions often in his past, he knew, and it was pointless to believe that it had no influence with him. Still, decisions like taking on a random courier mission, proved to him that letting his feelings for Sydney dictate his actions was not always a good idea. 

Vaughn's lungs burned like a furnace as he exploded out of the darkness of the alley into the gray light of what looked like a small parking lot. There were three cars parked next to a short, squat, and deteriorating building. Vaughn rushed towards the building and began frantically scanning the face, looking for a door.

He found one. He moved as fast as his tired legs could carry him and grabbed for the knob. It didn't turn. The door was locked. Vaughn let out a sickly groan at the revelation and began pounding on the door as hard as he could with his shoulder, as if it was the physical embodiment of all that was wrong in his world. Vaughn's act of tenacity was useless, however, as the door was metal and refused to budge from its snug hinges. Vaughn stopped and instead pounded on the door with his fist. If the door would not break, perhaps the owners of the three cars would hear his frenetic pounding and come to see what all the noise was about.

But again, Fate was against Vaughn, and no one appeared to answer his calls for help. With a last venomous look at the door, blaming it, and only it, for all of his current problems, Vaughn again began running. He had already wasted too much time, and he could hear the men in the alley growing closer. He did not know if he would be able to outrun them this time.

But that did not mean that he would not try.

  


***

  


Sydney fidgeted in her seat like a five year old child who had had too much sugar before her flight. Everything was taking too damn long, and she had never felt more impatient and helpless in her life. She wanted to be in London and on the ground NOW! Not eight hours from now, but right fucking now! She suddenly felt an urge to scream.

She would have, too, if not for the sudden appearance of Weiss in the aisle next to her seat. "You look like you could use some company," Weiss said companionably and moved across her, without asking for permission first, and sat in the window seat.

Sydney sighed loudly, no longer bothering to hide her intense frustration from anyone. Besides, she knew, no one on the plane with her was fooled by her pathetic attempt at masking her emotions. There were certain things that Sydney just couldn't hide, or couldn't control, and one of those things was her emotions when concerned with Vaughn.

"If you've come over here in some attempt to cheer me up or distract me, you can forget about it. It's not going to work, and there is nothing you can say or do that will make me able to think of anything else other than what is happening to Vaughn right now." Sydney did not even look in Weiss's direction once during her little speech, and Weiss frowned intensely.

When Weiss finally responded, he did so carefully, "Sydney, stop. You are blaming yourself for something you had no control over."

Sydney suddenly turned her head, her face growing red and her eyes beginning to ignite. Angrily, she blurted out, "I am not blaming myse..."

Weiss cut her off before she could finish, "Please, Syd, I'm not stupid. I may not know you as well as Vaughn, but I know you well enough, and I know you are blaming yourself for what happened. You don't need to, because it's not your fault. It's nobody's fault."

Sydney opened and closed her mouth repeatedly, without ever speaking, and felt her eyes beginning to water. After several seconds of looking at Weiss's concerned face, Syd finally spoke, "You don't understand, Weiss, it is my fault. I...I pushed him away. I caused the fight that made him leave. It's all my fault," she ended softly, closing her eyes as fresh pain assaulted her. "He could be dead, and I would have been the one to kill him."

Weiss grabbed her shoulder in a surprisingly firm grip, and shook her none too gently. Sydney was taken aback, momentarily, at the rather violent action. Weiss was normally such a gentle and easy-going guy, that she sometimes forgot he was a highly trained operative. Perhaps not like herself, she knew, but still dangerous in his own right. "Weiss...what are you doing?"

"Trying to see if anything will get through that stubborn, thick skull of yours. I thought since my words weren't getting through, I might try and see if I could shake some sense into you."

Sydney pushed Weiss's hand away and said a little testily, "Well...stop." 

"I'll stop as soon as you stop being stupid." Weiss felt a small shiver of pleasure tingle up and down his spine at the little look of shock that had suddenly appeared on Sydney's face. Perhaps he was getting through to her after all. "Yes, you may have started the fight, and yes, you may have pushed Vaughn away, but it was Vaughn who chose to leave on the mission, and it was the bad guys, whoever the Hell they are this week, that attacked him. If Vaughn is dead, and I know, Sydney, I _know_ that he's not, but if he were to die, it would not be you who was responsible for his death. It would be them."

Sydney quietly sighed and slowly relaxed into her seat. "I know that, Weiss. Intellectually, I know that what you're saying is true, but emotionally, it just doesn't feel that way."

Weiss smiled softly and patted Sydney's knee gently, "I understand, Syd. Vaughn is my best friend. I don't want to see him dead any more than you do. Besides," Weiss began to grin, his whole face lighting up, "the man owes me some warm nuts!"

Syd giggled despite herself and smiled a grateful smile at Weiss, "Thank you, Weiss. And I really don't want to know."

  


***

  


"There! He just ran inside." Sark paused and listened to the breathless voice, before responding, "No, I don't know where he is, I just saw him run inside the building." Again Sark grew quiet as he continued to skirt around the perimeter of the warehouse to the one door that he could see on his side of the building. He whispered, "Yes, I realize that it's a large building, so we'll just have to spread out to cover all the exits. Remember to stay alert; he may not have a weapon but he is not helpless."

With that last order, Sark grew silent completely, and shifted the gun in his hand for what seemed like the millionth time. He did not know why he was suddenly feeling so nervous. It was not like him to have any doubts about this aspect of his life. He had literally dedicated years of his life to honing his skills in combat. In fact, he had faced the very man he was chasing before in a stairwell of a research lab not to long ago.

That had been a brief but intense fight, and although Sark had emerged the winner, he knew not to discount the man's abilities. Even so, he knew himself well enough to know that it was not Michael Vaughn that he feared, but what was contained inside the case he carried. 

Sark was not a man accustomed to ignorance, and when confronted with such, he usually reacted negatively. Nevertheless, despite being in the dark about the contents of the very thing he sought, he could no more refuse to complete his mission as he could stop breathing. Yes, not knowing made him nervous and wary, but that only added fuel to the adrenaline pumping inside of him. For Sark, it was no longer the mission that truly mattered, but the challenge of overcoming an obstacle. No matter how much he had never wanted to deal with the obstacle in the first place.

Not for the first time, Sark wondered why he had agreed to take on this job. It was not his normal area of expertise, nor was it something he particularly enjoyed. Being a glorified mailman was not exactly the kind of life he had envisioned for himself when he had first set forth on his current path of amoral entrepreneurialism. It paid well, but money was of little interest when stacked against the mind numbing tedium of planning an operation to capture a suitcase, regardless of what it contained. Yes, he had endured far worse for other operations, and no doubt he knew, would continue to endure other such pedestrian faire in his career, but that did not mean he had to like it.

He arrived at the door and reaching out, slowly turned the knob, breathing a quiet sigh of relief when the knob turned. He gently pushed the door inward and stepped through the door as silent as a whisper of air. He hugged the wall and moved carefully, as he could see little pieces of debris strewn across the warehouse floor.

He moved farther into the darkened warehouse, straining his eyes and ears for any sign of Michael Vaughn. Unfortunately, his eyes had to contend with a rapidly approaching dusk, and his ears with the noises of a major city and the slow erosion of an abandoned building. Still, he knew that Vaughn would have little choice but to run. It was his only option if he did not want to become trapped. And the sound of running, Sark hoped, would rise above the background din and lead him straight to his target.

The deafening explosion of a gunshot assaulted Sark's ears, and he knew that Agent Vaughn had been found.

  


***

  


For the first time since clasping the steel ring around his wrist, Vaughn looked at the case that he carried with profound gratitude. It had saved his life. The shot, blinding both shooter and shootee alike, had happened as almost an afterthought. Vaughn had been turning a corner rather abruptly, as he had seen a door that he believed led to the outside, and he had literally ran into one of the men chasing him. The man had been holding his gun in front of him, and Vaughn, who had been holding the case against his chest again, jarred the man's hand, inadvertently causing him to pull the trigger. 

The bullet had impacted point blank into the case, sending it crashing into Vaughn's chest and knocking him back several steps. But the bullet had not penetrated the thick titanium hide of the case and Vaughn was unhurt except for a few pesky bruises. He knew that would not remain so, as the man in front of him was already beginning to regain his bearings, and so Vaughn decided to put the case to good use once more.

Using what little strength he had left, he swung with the case at the man's gun arm. The case struck the man's arm ruthlessly and the man screamed in sudden intense pain. The man dropped the gun, his hand no longer capable of holding onto it, and Vaughn followed up the blow with another swing at the man's head. Or what Vaughn hoped was his head. The case hit something solid and a sickening squishing sound assaulted Vaughn's senses. He winced and saw the man fall to the ground lifelessly.

Not wasting any time, Vaughn dropped to his knees and began frantically searching the ground for the man's gun. He knew that he wouldn't have much time before the man's accomplices inevitably showed up and Vaughn needed a weapon. Where was the gun!?

His left hand felt something cold and hard, and Vaughn grasped the object desperately. He sighed loudly in relief when the familiar outlines of a handgun greeted his learned fingers. He adjusted the gun firmly in his grip and climbed to his feet, already moving towards the door. Now that he had a weapon, he no longer felt like a naked man walking through a crowded room. He could feel hope beginning to come back.

He exploded out the door, just as the yells of the man's friends could be heard growing closer. Vaughn doubled his pace, running down a darkened street as fast as his tired legs could carry him. He was lost, he knew, but he didn't care. Whatever street, alley, road, it didn't matter what it was or where it went as long as it took him farther away from those chasing him. He ran for what seemed like hours, his sense of time fading into nothingness behind him. He had no idea how long he had been running or how far he had gone. He just kept going. 

Until he could run no more and he collapsed onto the bench of a bus stop. He coughed loudly and could not stop himself from vomiting onto the sidewalk. He lay limply along the bench, knowing that he was completely exposed, but unable to muster the energy to care. He could not go any farther. Not yet. Not until he rested. He had to rest before he ran himself to death; he was so weak.

Two beams of light stabbed Vaughn to the bench, immobilizing him with their intensity. He groaned and rolled off the bench and onto his knees. He breathed deeply several times and used the bench to push himself to wobbly feet. He held the gun close to his thigh, so as to minimize its exposure, and turned his body to face the approaching car. Considering that he was the only one on the darkened street, as far as he could tell, and the fact that the car was coming straight towards him, was a pretty clear indication that whoever was in the car was interested in him.

The car stopped in front of Vaughn and the driver's door opened. Vaughn tensed and cocked the hammer of the gun raising it slightly higher, and pressing the case closer to his body. It had saved his life once before, it might do so again. Vaughn knew he would need every advantage he had.

Vaughn was about to confront the driver, but the driver beat him to it. The voice that floated across the cool and misty air of a London night was a surprisingly welcome relief to Vaughn's ears, "Agent Vaughn? Is that you?"

Vaughn thought he recognized the voice, but he wasn't sure. "Agent Holly?"

The man began walking towards Vaughn slowly and Vaughn psyched himself up to be ready for anything. "It's Agent Thomas Holly, Agent Vaughn."

The driver stepped in front of the headlights and Vaughn got his first look at the man. When he saw that it was who the man claimed he was, he moved the gun in his hand to settle it inside the pocket of his jacket, and he slumped weakly against the bench in overwhelming relief. "Oh thank God!" Vaughn blurted out loudly, not bothering to hide his total exhaustion anymore. "I thought you were dead, Holly." Vaughn used his now free left hand to help keep himself upright.

Agent Holly hurriedly moved to Vaughn's side and stabilized him. He wrapped an arm around Vaughn's waist and took the majority of Vaughn's weight onto his body. "No, not dead. Almost though. Agent Johnson and I were ambushed in an apparent traffic jam. We tried to get a warning off to you, but they were jamming us."

Vaughn smiled a relieved thanks to Holly and helped Holly move him to the bench so that he could sit down. "How did you get out? Whoever they are seemed to have everything set up perfectly for us. We didn't stand a chance." 

Holly frowned and stood in front of Vaughn, looking him over with a careful eye. "We didn't. Johnson was killed and I nearly as well. I managed to escape and...um...acquire this car from a shop near the ambush."

Vaughn chuckled lightly, wincing partially as the laughter vibrated pitilessly across his body. He hurt in so many places that he wasn't even sure if he would be able to continue on. "I'm just so grateful to see you. How the Hell did you even find me?"

"There is a tracking device embedded in the case. I've been tracking you since the ambush, trying to reach you. It hasn't been easy; your movements have been so erratic and I was constantly having to evade capture."

Vaughn wheezed slightly and coughed wetly, stuttering, "S-S-sorry. Chasing me. Don't know who, but I feel like I've been running for hours."

"You have been, Vaughn. It's been almost four hours since you and the others were hit. I can't believe you've managed to make it this long."

Vaughn sighed and wiped his brow of sweat. The night was cool, but since sitting down, Vaughn realized for the first time that he was feeling flushed and that he was sweating worse than a leaky faucet. "I have no idea how I've managed to make it this far. I don't think I want to know, to be honest. I just want to take this to the Embassy and be done with this whole fucking ordeal."

Vaughn moved the case onto the bench next to me, unwilling to support its weight any longer. The son of a bitch would not be his problem for much longer, he thought happily. With Holly and his car, they could be at the Embassy in relatively no time, and Vaughn could not stop the effusive relief from saturating his body. 

Holly shifted in front of Vaughn and asked in an odd voice, "So, you haven't contacted anyone?"

Vaughn cocked his head and looked out wondering at Holly. "No, I haven't had the chance. I've been running nonstop since the ambush. I haven't even found any civilians to use as a go-between either. Why?"

Holly shook his head and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, "No reason in particular. Just making sure that I'm covering all my basis." He paused for several seconds and Vaughn used that time to stand up and off the bench, getting ready to leave. Holly continued talking, and his words froze Vaughn in confusion, "I'm sorry all this had to happen to you, Vaughn. You're a good agent. Being on the run for this long is an impressive feat and I admire your devotion to duty. But like every good thing, there must always be an end."

"Wha...what the Hell are you talking about, Holly?" Vaughn asked warily, suddenly afraid that maybe putting his gun away had been a bad idea.

"I'm not saying anything, really, Agent Vaughn. Just that I'm sorry." Holly voice did sound genuinely mournful to Vaughn's exhausted ears, and he felt himself relaxing a bit at the man's obvious sincerity. He should not have done so.

How Vaughn missed Holly pulling the gun out from inside his jacket, he would never know. Not that it mattered, really. The 9mm pointed at Vaughn's lower stomach from less than four feet away fired once, and only once. The flash was bright, but not overly so, and Vaughn had no time to react.

Vaughn let out a violent explosion of air as the bullet tore into his lower stomach, destroying everything in its path. Vaughn collapsed to his knees just as a light rain began to fall. The case struck the pavement with a loud clang, suddenly a roar to Vaughn's ears, and he looked up into the night sky, bleeding from the wound in his stomach, like a desperate man praying to the heavens for salvation.

  



	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Courier

Author: DOKChairman

Time/Spoilers: Don't know; it's a future fic. Assume everything up to "Truth Takes Time" is fair game.

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. I don't own anything, really. I am in fact a poor person with no worldly goods. If you would like to take pity on me and donate money to my Poor Writer's Fund, please send me an e-mail with your offer. Thank you.

Chapter 5: Murphy's Law of Thermodynamics

There is no white light at the end of a tunnel. And there is no last second slide show of your life. At least there wasn't for Michael Vaughn. Vaughn's last moments consisted of ruminations, deep ponderings on whether or not he would meet the same fate as his father. Perhaps Eric had been wrong. He certainly wasn't experiencing the things his friend had experienced when he had looked Death in the eye and Death had blinked. There was nothing. Nothing but rain and the cold unforgiving ground of a darkened street in the middle of nowhere. To the rest of the world, the life ending on that wet street would go unnoticed and unremarked.

That was the kind of death they signed on for. In Langley, Virginia, there stands a wall for such deaths. 34 stars to signify the 34 agents who died on darkened streets. To the man who could feel the life draining out of him, he knew it would not be much of an inconvenience to add one more.

He closed his eyes as the droplets of rain soothed his burning skin. Dying would not be so bad, he knew. It would be a release from the pain and the suffering, and the burden of Atlas would no longer be his. That forced a small, almost wistful, smile to grace his pale lips, and for the last time, he closed his eyes.

"Agent Vaughn, you can't leave me just yet."

Vaughn's eyes exploded open at the hard slap across his face. He moaned quietly and struggled to focus his eyes on the man leaning over him, momentarily shielding him from the welcomed rain. "H-Holly?" Vaughn asked groggily, still straddling the thin line between pain and bliss.

"Yes, Vaughn, it's me. I know that you're in a lot of pain right now, so I'll make this brief." Holly paused momentarily to slap Vaughn's face again, waiting till he had Vaughn's full attention; or at least what amounted to Vaughn's full attention. "I wanted to know if you had any last words you'd like me to give to anyone back home?"

Vaughn barked out a laugh, the sound cruel even to his own ears. "You're not serious. You're asking me for last words? You just shot me you son of a bitch!" Vaughn could feel some fire flowing through his veins as the anger sparked inside of him. "I got some last words for you. Why don't you stick that gun in your mouth and blow your fucking head off!"

Holly merely frowned disapprovingly and stood up, straightening his clothes needlessly. "I merely wanted to add credibility to my story for when I am debriefed. Surely a man as in love with Agent Bristow as you obviously are, would have something to say for her at the moment of his death. Making up something like that is a lot harder than using the words straight from the source."

Vaughn glared up at the towering man and struggled to sit up. He slowly inched his way backwards to rest his back against the bench, clenching his teeth through the pain the whole way. He looked steadily at Holly and then spoke slowly, already feeling his renewed strength dissipating, "You can tell Sydney that I love her and that if she skips the freeway most mornings, cause of construction, she can shave off 15 minutes of her morning commute." 

Holly snorted and swiftly kicked Vaughn in his stomach, just above the bullet wound in his side. Vaughn yelped like a wounded dog and fell onto his side, moaning pathetically. Holly crouched down and lifted Vaughn's face by his chin so that he could look him in the eyes. Vaughn was struck by the lack of emotion in Holly's light brown eyes, and he knew that whatever remorse or sympathy that might have colored Holly's actions were no longer there. "I admire a man with a sense of humor, Vaughn. Especially a man knocking on death's door. But only to a point."

Holly suddenly squeezed Vaughn's chin like a vice, his fingers burrowing into Vaughn's skin like so many knives through warm butter. Holly spoke slowly, enunciating every word carefully, "You have passed that point, Agent Vaughn. I thank you for securing and transporting the case for me, but now it is time to relieve you of your burden."

With an unnecessary flick of his wrist, Holly sent Vaughn's temple crashing into the immovable ground, and Vaughn felt his vision clouding. For the briefest of seconds, he closed his eyes and gazed upon nothingness. And then he was pulled back to reality with a sharp tug of his arm.

Holly was unlocking the handcuff from Vaughn's wrist. Fighting against every screaming nerve in his body, he suddenly jerked his arm out of Holly's grasp. The case fell on its side and Vaughn swung his legs in a wide arc, impacting solidly against Holly's right knee. Holly contorted his face in pain and nearly collapsed, shooting out his arm to the bench for support.

Vaughn, knowing that literally every second counted, used Holly's momentary vulnerability to press his attack. Pushing up from the ground, Vaughn managed to climb to his knees. With a swift, purposeful strike with his elbow to the front of Holly's knee, Vaughn completely brought Holly to the ground. Vaughn then half-crawled to Holly's moaning body and grasped the back of the man's head, his fingers slipping slightly through the matted, wet hair.

Much like Holly had done to him only seconds before, Vaughn did the same, only with more force than Holly had ever intended. Much later, after Vaughn had long since left the bleeding and broken body on a dark and rain soaked bus stop, he would wonder if what he had done had really been necessary. A large part of him, the part that made him Michael Vaughn, would scream no, but there would always be a little part of his mind that resided in deep dark corners and only came out when survival was at its highest peak, that would scream a resounding yes.

Ruthlessly, and with little hesitance, Vaughn jammed Holly's head straight into the concrete of the sidewalk. Holly's nose broke instantly on the first impact, and blood splattered the ground, which was quickly wiped away by the rain. Holly moaned and came to his senses just long enough to throw back an elbow that caught Vaughn in the center of his chest. Vaughn sucked in a deep breath of air, mixing the smell of blood with the slightly stale taste of the London showers.

Holly's ultimately futile gesture did little to stifle Vaughn's resolve, and Vaughn retaliated swiftly with two forceful shoves of Holly's face into the ground. Holly stopped moaning on the second, and stopped moving all together on the third. After the fourth shove, Vaughn came out of the furious stupor that had overcome him and realized that Holly was no longer a threat.

Weakly, Vaughn released Holly's hair from his grip. He was not sure that the man was still alive, nor did he care. He rolled away from the body and landed flat on his back, half his body lying on top of the sidewalk, the other half stretching out into the street. He turned his face upward, opened his eyes, and sucked in huge lungfulls of air. Raindrops wetted his parched throat, and never had Vaughn felt relief like he did now.

But his relief was short lived, for he knew that he couldn't stay where he was. Fortunately for him, Agent Holly had provided him with a means of transportation. Vaughn slowly, and carefully to ensure that his wound had the least amount of pressure on it as possible, rolled onto his stomach and crawled to the still body of Agent Holly. He hurriedly, for he could feel himself grow increasingly weak, searched Holly's person for the keys to the waiting car.

Vaughn found them in the right pocket of Holly's jacket. He fished them out and grinned triumphantly; every ray of sunshine was to be savored. Vaughn turned around and slowly began his journey to the car. The door was already open, bright, warm light spilled from inside the car's dry embrace, and Vaughn again felt renewed vigor. He felt hope.

***

Sydney woke slowly from a surprisingly restful sleep. She gingerly lifted her head off the back of the cushioned seat, and tentatively rolled her head in a circle to make sure all the kinks were out. This was one of things she hated most about flying: The stiffness and muscle ache from sitting in one place for too long. The jet lag never seemed to bother her, which she was eternally grateful for, but she always felt like visiting a chiropractor after an especially long flight.

She looked over to her right and smiled faintly at the sight of a drooling Eric Weiss. Well, perhaps drooling was too harsh a comment, Sydney thought. It really was only a small couple of drops hanging on the end of his chin as his head lolled to his right and rested against the fuselage of the plane.

She chuckled lightly to herself, and started with some surprise when she realized that was the first laugh she had had in...God knows how many hours. She stopped laughing at the thought, but the smile never left her face and she reached over to gently shake Weiss.

Weiss woke in only a manner that Eric Weiss could awake in. His body seemed to convulse and his arms and legs flailed wildy for a very brief two seconds like someone had just shoved a cattle prod up his...well, you get the idea. He mumbled incoherently and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and chin in a move that looked well practiced to Sydney. She couldn't help but giggle lightly when Weiss finally awoke completely and sat up straight in his seat.

"Huh? Wha?" Weiss turned his head to face a still giggling Sydney. "What's so funny?"

Sydney began to laugh harder now and rummaged around in the seat pocket in front of her, pulling out a Kleenex box and presenting it to Weiss. "Here, you might want to...uh...wipe your chin." Weiss had gotten most of the drool with his hand swipe, but there was still some left on his chin.

Weiss glared at Sydney, but he didn't have his heart in it. He practically ripped the box out of Sydney's hand in his haste to pull a kleenex out and wipe his chin. He grumbled, "Stupid Mike and his stupid getting himself shot at. Why couldn't he just stay home and not make me have to fly all over the world saving his no good ass?"

Sydney was laughing even harder now; a full body laugh that brightened up her whole face. Weiss continued grumbling, but secretly he was grinning inside almost as wide as Sydney. Some people were blessed with many talents, others only a few. Weiss knew that he was competent in many things, but excelled at very little. Except for when it came to making people laugh. That was something he had always prided himself on, and was a talent that he tried to exercise whenever possible. So it made him very happy and quite pleased with himself to see Sydney genuinely laugh.

He had begun to worry about her before they had even gotten on the plane. His worry had developed into total concern over her defeatist and self-reproof during their talk earlier. It was a relief to see her lightening up a bit. He knew that she would be no help to Vaughn if she mired herself in blame and self pity. Hopefully, with her in a slightly better mood, she'd be able to think more clearly. Or at least more rationally.

"Nice to see that I amuse you. Would you like me to sing and dance for you too? Maybe juggle?"

Sydney began to calm down, but her brown eyes twinkled at the thought of Weiss singing and dancing. "No, Weiss, but thanks for the offer. Maybe after we find Vaughn, I'll take you up on that."

Weiss blinked at the optimism in Sydney's voice and her choice of words were not lost on him. Could he have cheered her up this much in such a short amount of time? He didn't think so, which actually made him quite glad. He was sure that he had helped, but Sydney seemed to have done most of the work. He slowly shook his head in slight wonderment. She had an amazing ability to compartmentalize and deal with horrible things. He didn't envy her that ability at all.

"You seem considerably more upbeat. Have a nice dream about you and Vaughn?" Weiss wiggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly. 

Sydney laughed and lightly smacked Weiss's arm. "Haha, Weiss, that's not funny." The smile faded a bit and her lips became thin and more serious, "I've just decided that you were right earlier. This isn't my fault, at least not all of it, and blaming myself is counterproductive. Vaughn needs me to keep a clear head, so that's what I'm going to do."

"That's great to hear, but I gotta admit, I'm a little disappointed." Weiss paused until Sydney looked at him confusedly, then he grinned and added, "I mean from now on, this means I won't be able to legitimately manhandle you when you're being stupid."

Realization dawned on Sydney's face, "Ahhhh, right. From now on, the gloves are off."

Weiss frowned and his whole face seemed to droop dejectedly. "Awww, damn. And I had such plans too."

***

Sark could not prevent the sigh from escaping his lips. He had tried, oh how he had tried, to maintain his composure in the face of such failure. But he was only human, no matter how he wished differently. And humans are fallible creatures, with faults and cracks beneath their foundations. Sark's faults shook him to the core, whenever they demanded to be noticed, as they were doing so now.

He paced up and down the worn and faded concrete of the warehouse floor, so tense as to emulate a poised cobra ready to strike. And strike he wanted to. Desperately, he wanted to. But his professionalism and his own iron self-control would not allow him to, even now as he paced in front of the four men who, much like the case attached to a man who had eluded his grasp twice now, had become the focus of his rage.

They were the four survivors of the retrieval team, and the four men responsible for allowing Agent Vaughn to escape the warehouse. They had once been five, but their fifth companion was lying in a pool of his own blood where Agent Vaughn had made good his escape.

"Would someone please explain to me how a man with a 40-pound metal case attached to his arm, on foot, and obviously wounded, managed to evade five heavily armed former commandoes, not once but twice?" Sark stopped pacing and faced the four men, pinning them to the ground with a piercing glacial glare. All but one refused to meet his glare.

The man mumbled something in Russian that Sark could not understand, and then he spat on the ground with obvious disgust. "What did you say?" Sark demanded quietly, deadly.

The man's face flushed in obvious anger, so brightly that Sark could see it even through the dim light of the warehouse. He spoke in extremely heavily accented English, "I said, 'Fuck you, you self righteous prick.'"

"I see," Sark took a few steps closer to the brazen Russian and looked him up and down. Sergei Sokolov was not a tall man, but Sark could see that he was obviously well built, especially for a man who was fast approaching middle age. Wiry muscle under taut skin, apparent even under the combat gear that he was still wearing. Sergei had a thin face, and intelligent brown eyes that were as steady and clear as any Sark had ever seen.

"You do not frighten me, boy. I was fighting Chechen rebels when you were still a parasite in your whore of a mother. Do not think that you can intimidate me." More unintelligible Russian. Sark had always thought that his Russian was fluent, but Sergei was speaking a dialect he obviously couldn't understand. "You can terminate my contract, you can even kill me if you wish, but do not question my competence again," This time, Sergei was quiet and deadly.

Sark stared hard into Sergei's eyes. It was a clash of titans. Two men who with their bare hands could cause death and destruction to rain down upon the heads of mere mortals. "If you had not given me a reason to do so, I would have no need to question your competence."

Again, Sergei spoke Russian first before speaking English. And again, Sark stepped closer until he was no more than four feet away from Sergei. "I will find this Michael Vaughn for you. I will find him, kill him, and bring you the case you seek. And I will do this for free."

Sark's eyes widened slightly, but that was the extent of his shock at the Russian's statement. "For free?"

"Da, for free. I do not care what you do with these...these..." Sergei said something in Russian as he made a hand gesture to indicate the other three remaining members of the retrieval team. Sark could see the three men bristle and grow angry out of the corner of his eye, but he never once left Sergei's face. "Pay them if you wish, kill them also, if you want, but I will do this for free."

Sark wasted little time in responding, "Agreed. I will, of course, be leading my own effort to capture Agent Vaughn, but if you should happen to do so on your own, then all will be forgotten. If not..." Sark shrugged his shoulders and said definitively, "then I suggest that you never come to my attention ever again."

Sark turned his back and made as if he was leaving, before stopping and standing rigidly. The cobra was ready to strike. Gracefully, he turned around to face Sergei one last time. "Oh, and do not speak to me like that ever again," Sark said so quietly and so unwaveringly, that it seemed as if everything in the world faded away but the words that he spoke. Fluidly, Sark reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun and fired one shot into Sergei's left arm. The entire action had taken less than three seconds; a strike as fast as any cobra in the world.

Sergei grunted loudly and clenched his teeth together as he sagged to the ground and rested on his left knee. No other sound escaped his lips and he glared up at Sark with hatred in his eyes. Sark bestowed the kneeling Sergei with an expressionless stare as he walked up to the man and cupped his chin, lifting it so they could see eye to eye. "My mother may have been a whore, but I am still your superior and you will pay me the respect I deserve. Disrespect me again, and I will kill you." It was the silent certainty that made Sark's threat more dangerous and frightening than any long winded list of threats.

Sark bestowed Sergei with one last icy glare and turned on his heel, his relaxed composure and slow, confident stride, a loud proclamation of contempt for the men behind him. Vesuvius had spoken, and that was all any man needed to know.

***


	6. Chapter 6

Title: The Courier

Author: DOKChairman

Time/Spoilers: Don't know; it's a future fic. Assume everything up to "Truth Takes Time" is fair game.

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. I don't own anything, really. I am in fact a poor person with no worldly goods. If you would like to take pity on me and donate money to my Poor Writer's Fund, please send me an e-mail with your offer. Thank you.

Chapter 6: Icarus and His Sun

"Vaughn, would you pass me the sugar?"

Vaughn raised an eyebrow as he pushed over the little clay pot that contained the sugar. "Sugar? On waffles?"

Sydney blushed a very light pink under Vaughn's inquiring gaze and simply pushed a strand of hair behind her ear before reaching for the tiny silver spoon stuck in the pot. "Hey, I like sugar on my waffles, okay? I used to eat them like this all the time when I was a kid."

Vaughn held up a hand and pushed back slightly further into his chair, grinning at Sydney. "I'm not saying anything. Not a word."

Sydney began to grumble as she poured sugar over the golden squares of her French waffles, courtesy of the man in front of her. "Don't know why we're eating waffles at 9 at night to begin with. Then he goes and makes fun of me? Hmph! Stupid Vaughn..." Her voice trailed off into total inaudibility at that point. Vaughn merely laughed.

"Aw come on, Syd!? Where is your sense of adventure? Your sense of originality? I know that you said earlier that you'd never eaten breakfast for dinner before, but even you had to have at least tried _something_ like this before, right?"

Sydney stopped her fork from slicing through a square of waffle and looked up to face Vaughn. Uncertainty and embarrassment colored her face. "Umm...well...not really. I mean, I always saw breakfast as breakfast and dinner as dinner."

Vaughn simply grinned and made a big flourish with his arm that encompassed the whole table. Breakfast foods of all sorts could be seen: omelettes, waffles, pancakes, toast. It was a cornucopia of food and it was all for just the two of them. Vaughn knew that he had gone a bit overboard; okay, he had gone more than a bit overboard, but it had been _fun_ to make all those different foods. Especially since Sydney had helped. It had been a team effort, and to be honest, it had taken a lot of Vaughn's will power to actually stay in the kitchen with Sydney and cook instead of do certain...other things with Sydney. Which had made the end result all the more satisfying.

But despite all the will power and effort that had been put into making the small breakfast feast, it had been worth it to give Sydney this little moment of her childhood back. At least, that was the reason why Vaughn suspected why Sydney had never eaten breakfast for dinner before. With her mother dead (of course not really, but another story for another time) and her father constantly busy and away, Vaughn suspected that Sydney never had the opportunity to participate in what he considered to be primarily a family activity.

Yes, there had been times where he had had breakfast for dinner in college, but that had been because it was something simple and easy to make. But something told him that Sydney had never quite faced the kind of frat house lifestyle of a college male. So, that left the family angle as one of the only reasons that he could see why she had never participated in this activity. At least, it was with his family, and then his mother after his father died, that he had done this sort of thing with when he had been younger. 

Well, he considered Sydney to be his family now. Sort of. Almost. Maybe. Oh hell, he didn't know. He just knew that he would do anything for the woman sitting across from him, and looking so incredibly cute as she sullenly ate her waffles.

A soft smile graced Vaughn's face and he moved his chair to sit besides Sydney's. He placed an arm over her shoulders and she leaned her head up against his and he talked quietly, "It's okay, Syd. I think I understand."

Sydney stuffed a forkfull of waffle into her mouth, mumbling the whole while, "Thank you. It's just...thank you."

Vaughn kissed the side of her head and pulled back to simply sit and watch her. It wasn't long before Sydney began to squirm under Vaughn's constant gaze and she placed her fork down and pushed her plate away. She turned to face Vaughn and gave him a look that clearly showed her exasperation. But she was smiling and her eyes were bright and full of affection. "Vaughn, what are you doing?"

"Watching you?"

"I was eating!" Sydney shook her head and laughed lightly. Vaughn simply shrugged his shoulders.

"So? You're still beautiful." Sydney blushed and lowered her eyes, but then flashed Vaughn a dazzling smile that reminded him of the rising sun. Vaughn smiled in return and reached out with his hand to touch her arm and Vaughn felt like he could fly as high as any bird, as long as he could see that smile.

***

Vaughn rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. Weariness combined with fever and the wound in his stomach were quickly sapping him of his strength. He was finding it increasingly harder to drive, to concentrate, to do anything.

He wasn't sure why his thoughts continued to drift back to Sydney and their last night together. He couldn't even remember when that last night was. Two nights ago? Three? All he remembered was that was when everything went wrong for him. The beginning to this day that would not end and the case that he could not seem to get rid of. The damn, overbearing, stupid...Vaughn's mind drifted as he drove...

***

Vaughn pulled back from the kiss when the necessity for oxygen became a concern. Vaughn moved back to his own chair, grinning like a fool, or at least what he imagined what a fool would grin like, and Sydney merely looked satisfied, like a Cheshire cat who had eaten the canary.

The last of the food was gone. Credit that to one Sydney Bristow. Slim and lithe as a dancer, but boy could she eat. Vaughn knew it was due to her incredible metabolism and the constant stress her body endured. But even still, he was amazed at the amount of food she could eat. He had helped, of course, but she had done most of the heavy lifting.

And they had just been partaking in some of the dessert. So far, it had been Vaughn's favorite part of the meal. He smiled at that thought and leaned in for another kiss. This one lasted as long as the last one, but it was Sydney who pulled away in need of oxygen this time. "We really should clean this mess up first before we...move on."

Vaughn almost began to protest but he knew the enormity of the project awaiting them and it would be faster for them moving onto what they both wanted the sooner they got the mess out of the way. Besides, he recognized that look in Sydney's eye. It was the stubborn look she got when she had her mind set on something and was not ready to be easily swayed to do something else.

Vaughn knew if he tried, he could change her mind, but then he'd feel guilty leaving all the cleanup work till later, where she might have to do it all herself. So, he stood up out of his chair and began to gather dishes off the table. This would be the perfect opportunity to bring up something that had been on his mind for a while now anyways. 

He lifted off the plates and made his way towards the sink, talking over his shoulder. "Umm...Syd, a couple of weeks ago, I meant to offer you something, and well, things happened that got in the way of that and I never did get to give you it."

Vaughn felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned his head to see Sydney smiling softly next to him. "It's okay, Vaughn. I know. Things just got crazy."

"Well, I'm not saying that I'm talking about it now, but if I were to make the offer again soon, do you think you'd be okay with it?"

Sydney leaned up and kissed Vaughn on his cheek, moving off wordlessly to put her pile of dishes on the counter near the sink. Vaughn watched her go and he smiled, walking to join her pile with his, and mumbling to himself, "I'll take that as a yes."

***

Vaughn smiled through his pain at the memory. That had been a very pleasant time, for the both of them. He only wished that it had lasted. But like so many things in his life, and especially Sydney's life, all good things had come to an end. And it had been a rather magnificent end. Vaughn could not help but grin rather sardonically at that thought.

Vaughn coughed and the grin was wiped from his face in a grimace of pain. A horrible visage contorted his face as a fresh wave of pain overcame him, reminiscent of the gargoyles that dotted the cathedrals of half his ancestry. This was getting to be too much, and thinking about Sydney and how things went from good to suddenly worse with her was not helping his mental situation. God, why was he still driving? 

Vaughn closed his eyes and took quick, shallow breaths. He just had to stay conscious. He had to deliver the case. He had to get home. He had to find Sydney and fix things...

***

Vaughn smiled to himself as he dried the last of the plates. Tonight had gone about as well as he could have hoped. Sydney had enjoyed herself, he had enjoyed himself, the food had been good, and once the clean up was finished, he planned on giving into those earlier desires that he had fought so hard to control. Assuming, of course, that Sydney felt the same.

He placed the plate that was in his hand down on the counter to dry and turned around to go searching for Sydney. She had left a few minutes earlier to answer a phone call and she had still not returned yet. "Syd?"

Vaughn left the kitchen area and went off in search of his wayward...girlfriend. He wasn't even sure what to call Sydney. They really needed to define themselves in terms of their relationship. "Syd? Hey Syd?"

He walked into her bedroom to find her sitting on her bed, just sitting on her bed, listlessly staring at the wall in front of her. Immediately, he grew concerned and rushed to her side. "Syd, is everything okay?" He got no response. "Sydney?"

Sydney became a blur of motion as she exploded off the bed. She spun around to face Vaughn and she was angry. Vaughn could recognize all the signs as easily as if he were reading a book: tightness of the lips and limbs, the pacing, the expression on her face and the tenseness of her body. She was a coiled spring ready to explode. Vaughn was almost afraid to go near her.

"You lied to me!"

Vaughn blinked and took a sudden step backward. Self preservation flashed in the back of his mind and all he could think about was running. What was she talking about? "Sydney, what are you talking about?"

"You lied to me! You told me that you were finished investigating my mother."

Vaughn shook his head and took several steps towards Sydney, but Sydney leapt backwards away from Vaughn. "No! I want to know why I just got a call from Will about the project you two have been working on and why you are accessing the CIA's archives for cases pertaining to my mother! Again!"

Vaughn, seeing that going near Sydney was a bad idea in the extreme, backed away slowly. He held his hands up and in front of him, like dealing with a wild animal who had spent too much time in a cage, and pleaded earnestly, "Please Sydney, you don't understand. It's not what you think. I am not investigating your mother anymore, I'm just doing some follow up work on some related cases. I swear."

"Related cases that just happen to deal with my mother? After the last couple of weeks, I find that a little hard to believe. And to make matters worse, you're using Will?" Sydney shrieked and Vaughn winced. "_WILL_!? Why are you using Will?!"

"Will is good at what he does, and that is digging up information. He found some information for me that I needed quickly and that I couldn't have found myself because I wouldn't have known how to find it, first off, nor would I have had the time to look for it either. I didn't force him to do it; I asked, he volunteered." Vaughn was starting to get a little defensive, so he tried to take several calming breaths. He couldn't lose control. He just couldn't. This was a sore subject for both of them.

Vaughn wasn't sure what bothered Sydney most, the fact that he was still allegedly investigating her mother or that he had supposedly lied to her. It seemed to matter little to Sydney at the moment that he had done neither. From the way she was acting, it was probably the lying, although he knew that there would always be a large part of Sydney that would never be able to come to terms with who her mother really was.

"Sydney, just calm down and listen to me, please?" As soon as he said the words, Vaughn realized they were the wrong words to say. Outrage colored Sydney's face, turning it an interesting shade of red that reminded Vaughn of the peppers that he had cut up for the omelettes they had eaten earlier. 

"Calm down!? You want me to calm down? Oh, I'll calm down all right." Sydney's voice became as cool as a New England breeze, "You should know better than anyone how much I can't stand those who lie to me."

Vaughn sighed, loudly and exasperatedly. He was getting fed up. "I'm not lying to you Syd. I was doing some research on some old cases that just happened to have information that related to your mother, okay? I thought some of them might have more information about my...father." Vaughn wiped a hand across his face and slumped his shoulders, "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was doing this project, all right? I wasn't thinking. I didn't think anything of it at the time, I should have, I didn't realize that it would cause a big problem and that's my fault. I'm sorry."

"Don't patronize me, Vaughn. Don't apologize just because you think it's something I want to hear."

"Oh for Christ's sake, Sydney! I'm not patronizing you! I'm telling you the truth. This was just a case of bad judgment on my part and..." Vaughn cut himself off before he finished what he was going to say.

But Sydney knew him too well and she finished the thought for him, "And gross overreaction on my part? Is that what you were going to say, Vaughn?"

"Look, you know what? I'm sorry that I didn't tell you, but really, I swear that I'm not investigating your mother. It's just a coincidence only. But if you are unwilling to believe me, then fine, I guess I have nothing more to say here." Vaughn stared at Sydney, who simply stared at him back. 

"Don't you have anything to say?" Vaughn asked, and there was desperation lacing his every word.

Sydney just stood there, fuming, mired in her own sense of wounded righteousness and feelings of betrayal. Vaughn could clearly see the warring emotions on her face. She had never been able to hide her feelings from him. She could try, she could erect walls to block off her feelings from the outside world, but he could always break through those walls. But now...she was just being so infuriating. So unwilling to listen. 

He hated it when people called him a liar. Yes, it had been a mistake not to tell her about the investigation, but it really had slipped his mind. He had started it weeks ago, long before he had been investigated for his off-the-books investigation of Irina Derevko. And the cases only had a passing relation to Irina, nothing more. He just wanted to learn more about the past history of his father, that's all. Not even his father, specifically, just the world that he lived in.

But Sydney...God! She was blowing everything out of proportion, which was causing him to blow everything out of proportion. It was a tumbling line of dominoes, and Vaughn was every domino in line, each collapsing piece feeling that much more worse than the last. And he could do nothing to stop the chain reaction.

Vaughn could take the silence no longer, "Fine. I'll...I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I am not lying to you about anything else. I know Will is your friend, but he works for the CIA now and he's a big boy, he can take care of himself. You need to get over your trust issues, Sydney, I am not your father."

"Fuck you, Vaughn." Sydney took several quick steps towards Vaughn. She was only several inches away from him now. "I think you had better go."

"Yeah, I think I'd better go too. I can tell you're being totally unreasonable tonight. Jesus, Sydney, why won't you just listen to me!?" Vaughn got no response so he just let out a disgusted sound. "Whatever."

He turned around and walked out of the bedroom. All he could feel as he walked out of the room was an intense feeling of falling, like he no longer had wings.

***

Vaughn's head lulled to the right and he groggily and slowly righted it. He blinked, several rivulets of sweat were sliding down his face, and he let go of the steering wheel with his left arm to swipe his face free of the perspiration. The car swerved and he quickly grabbed the wheel to regain control.

He had no idea where he was going. And he was hot. So hot. He felt like his skin was on fire and lava was flowing through his veins. His head lulled again and his vision clouded. He suddenly sucked in a deep breath and winced, doubling over and his forehead touched the steering wheel. The car swerved violently. If not for the fact that it was late at night and he was driving in an oft untraveled part of London (at least at this time of the night), Vaughn would have surely plowed into another car by now. Vaughn righted himself in time to prevent the car from driving onto the curb.

He didn't know how much longer he was going to last. He was being stupid. He needed to find a pay phone. But he couldn't see! His vision was too cloudy- it was the damn fever that he was running- making everything so blurry. He was amazed at the fact that he had managed to make it this far. Hell, he was amazed he was still coherent. He knew the gunshot wound was bad; he could feel it still bleeding.

He winced again, but this time managed to stay upright and in control. He couldn't do this for much longer. He needed help. But he didn't know who he could trust, who to ask for help. He couldn't remember any of the contact numbers he had been given prior to the mission; his mind was too hazy for that, or even the number to the American Embassy. It was why he needed a pay phone. They would have a phone book, or he could reach an operator, or something.

Vaughn coughed wetly, blood spraying the Ford logo of steering wheel, and sudden lightheadedness overcame him. His head crashed forward and the car curved obliquely straight into a lamppost. Metal met metal in a horrible collision and Vaughn's body was thrown back and forth against his seat and the steering wheel but he never felt a thing. He had already passed out.

***

Sergei Sokolov kicked the moaning body over with his left foot and then crouched to his haunches. The face was unrecognizable; hamburger really. He had seen worse, so the smell and the blood, and brutality of the man's face below him affected him none at all. He cared very little about that. All he cared about was if the man could speak.

"I know you are in lot of pain, my friend. I can end your pain if you help me. Do you want me to end your pain?"

His only response was a loud, inarticulate groan, but it was more than he had been expecting. Sergei leaned his head closer to the man's face, at least what was left of it, and spoke again, "Good, friend. I know that you've seen Michael Vaughn. I want to know where he gone. Tell me, and I will stop pain for you."

The man opened and closed his mouth several times, but only a croak came out. Finally, after several breaths the man managed to utter one word, "C-c-car." Everything after that was an unintelligible groan to Sergei.

Sergei swore aloud in his convoluted Russian and stood up. So Vaughn was no longer on foot. That would make things exponentially harder, but Sergei had no choice. Sergei turned on his heel to walk away, but a surprisingly firm grip stopped him. He looked down to see a bloody hand grabbing his ankle and he shifted his gaze to the man lying on the ground. "T-the p-pain."

"Of course, my friend." Sergei pulled out his gun and shot the man once between the eyes. Or, at least what he thought were his eyes. Then he turned and walked away.

***

Sark sighed a tired sigh and slipped through the door into the waiting car. It was only three hours before dawn, and he could not remember the last time he had slept. He was beginning to feel the effects of exhaustion, and it was a welcome relief to luxuriate in the relative comforts of the car for the brief drive to his new headquarters. He had to relocate, for his previous location had simply accumulated too much use, besides, it was never wise to stay in one place for too long no matter how secure the location.

Sark sincerely hoped that they would secure the case before noon. He wanted this job over and he wanted his money. But more than that, he wanted a nap, something to eat, and a chance to relax. This job was proving to be a lot more trouble than it was worth. And if Sark was honest with himself, he was beginning to contemplate the option of just cutting his losses and shutting down the operation for good.

Rarely had he been on any op that lasted this long, let alone one that was sure to garner as much attention as this one. By now, both intelligence branches of the American and British governments would be diligently pursuing the case, and Sark was fairly certain that the British authorities would not take too kindly to those people who shoot up their streets in the middle of the day. Simply not finishing the job might actually be the prudent thing to do.

But...it annoyed him. It went against his sense of professional pride. His loyalties might be flexible, but his loyalty to his craft was not. And while selling out one employer or suddenly changing employers overnight was one thing, not finishing a job was another. On the other hand...he really was not a fan of prison. That's assuming of course they went easy on him, which he doubted they would be so willing to do.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He was not expecting a call, so the call was not a welcome intrusion to his relaxing respite. Still, he could not ignore any call that managed to come through his private cell. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone; no number was displayed on his automatic trace/log program. That intrigued him greatly and he opened the cell.

Before he could even say a word, a voice began speaking, "I have a proposition for you."

Sark instantly recognized the voice and all signs of outward fatigue vanished from his presence. "I'm listening."

"For the case and Agent Vaughn, alive, I will pay you triple the fee that you are charging Grigori Pavonivich."

"Triple? Are you serious?"

"Very. Remember, I want him alive."

Sark snorted, "Something tells me I'll have a hard time convincing him I have his best interests at heart."

"That is not my concern. You have till sundown to deliver."

"But what abo-"

The voice cut him off, "Do not worry about that. I will know when you have what I want." And then the phone went dead.

Sark sunk back into his seat and closed his eyes. He blindly placed the phone back inside its pocket and carefully thought over this newest development. He tried to focus, but he found his thoughts drifting, too wild and jumbled to be coherent, and he soon fell into a light sleep.

The car stopped. He was here.


End file.
